


Rest Awhile, You Cruel Cares

by riventhorn



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, Established Relationship, F/M, Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 16:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 43,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riventhorn/pseuds/riventhorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And so the traitor Agravaine lay dead, and the witch vanished, leaving the wreck of war and strife behind them. Arthur Pendragon, son and heir to Uther and now king, took to wife Guinevere and held in company his noble knights. His faithful servant, Merlin, remained close at his side as was their wont. And with these companions, Arthur set forth to rebuild his kingdom, facing not only the doubts of those who misliked his youth and choice of wife, but his own qualms, for he knew that he had been taken in by the sweet words of his uncle and sister and had not seen their treachery until the hour was almost too late. Ere peace could come to his kingdom, he must find a way to heal the wounds that had cut so deeply into his own heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Part of Joyous Spring

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the months following the end of Series 4. I suppose this is technically an AU, but I think of it more as a canon hybrid. As my artist says, it is “a little to the left” of canon. Much as I love the show, it is riddled with anachronisms, and I decided I wanted to try and make it resemble a true medieval setting a bit more, depicting daily life more like how it was in the mid-13th century. I have also made Arthur and Merlin lovers, but in other respects, I tried to adhere to canon. See the end of the fic for more notes on the historical aspects. 
> 
> A million thanks to **nu_breed** for being such a wonderful beta and helping me improve this fic while patiently fielding my numerous emails. And I was so, so lucky to have the amazingly talented **barbitone** as my artist. It was a joy to collaborate with her, and she spoiled me rotten with all the gorgeous artwork she did for this. 
> 
> And, of course, thank you to **the_muppet** for all her hard work in running this. Merlin has been such a joyful part of my life these past four years, and I’m so glad I got to participate in the last round of Paperlegends.
> 
> Artwork can also be viewed [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/943141).
> 
> Disclaimer: no copyright infringement intended; no profit is being made from this

_Tuesday, the eleventh day after Ostara in the first year of the reign of Arthur Pendragon_

Dawn moved outside the stone walls of his chamber. A breath of air stirred the pennants, and the battlements caught the first pale slant of sun. The barest hint of light managed to seep through glazed windows and creep under the thick curtains surrounding the bed, drawn tight against a night that had harkened back to the cold of midwinter instead of the first days of spring. 

Arthur kept his breathing soft and even, listening. He fancied he could hear the baker cursing in the kitchen, ordering a boy to stir up the fires while he set the day’s bread to rise. Walter, the castle steward, must be shivering into a clean linen shirt and tunic. The fewterer’s lad had surely gathered the meat scraps from last night’s supper and gone out to feed the alaunts, greyhounds, and lymers, all barking and clamoring in their kennel, eager to be coursing into the deep woods on the musky trail of a hare or hart. 

He should prefer such a start to the day himself. Perhaps tomorrow he would shift the household out into the forest for a hunt. Lord Ector and Lord Rocelin had arrived late the night before, but by tomorrow they should be rested enough to welcome the prospect of taking out the falcons. 

Guinevere shifted against him, and he pulled the blanket over her bare shoulder. On his other side, Merlin remained deep in slumber, mouth half-open in a little snore. The sudden drop in temperature had given him cause to bring Merlin into bed with them the night before. They had all three curled together until the chill began to diminish, and Arthur had dropped off to sleep with his arm around Guinevere, and Merlin’s nose—still a little cold—pressed against his neck.

It was the first time Merlin had shared his bed since the wedding. An uneasy tightness stirred in Arthur’s chest at the thought. Oh, the affections between him and Merlin had never diminished, but he could not deny that they had been forced to confine them to odd moments during the day, hastily seeking their pleasure before duty recalled them. Merlin had not voiced a complaint. And Gwen had not broached the matter, either, though she had come upon him with his hair mussed and clothes in disarray more than once. She had always known how matters stood between them, of course. Yet he was now regretting that clearer words had not been voiced. It was one thing to have two lovers and quite another to have a lover and a wife. The fact that none of them had spoken about it did not mean the skein of emotions tethering the three of them together had not grown knotted and tangled. At some point he would have to try and separate the threads into an even warp.

He could not manage it this morning, though. Not with their guests waiting, not with so many other troubles weighing on his mind.

The bells in the tower rang prime, and he introduced his elbow to Merlin’s ribs. Merlin made a muttered noise of protest.

“Up, Merlin. Get the fire going; it’s damnably cold. And send a servant to fetch some water.”

Merlin yawned and bestirred himself reluctantly. “I know my duties full well, sire,” he muttered, sticking out one arm and feeling about for his braies. 

“And yet you still seem to think they include lazing about in your lord’s bed till half the morning is gone,” Arthur returned. “I have guests to greet and a kingdom to manage.”

“And I suppose I shall be pressed into hauling countless chests and sacks up to their chambers,” Merlin said, wriggling awkwardly under the blankets as he dressed. “My arms will be ready to fall off by midday.”

“Nonsense. It does you good to tread the castle steps. My old arms master used to make me go up and down them twice each morning and twice each evening when I was a lad.”

“I am sick of hearing about your arms master. He sounds a wretched man, and you seem to have inherited his most odious traits.”

Arthur ignored this in favor of kissing Guinevere awake. She scrunched her nose and tried to dive under the covers. “I shall hide here until they have gone,” she declared, her voice muffled. 

“All will be well.” He brushed back her hair and smiled when she peeked up at him. 

“But what if I commit some unforgivable breech of manners? Gundrea, Ector’s wife, is known as the most proper woman in the kingdom, and now I must dine with her and talk with her while we embroider, and I am sure to get nervous and say something inappropriate and—”

“And then we shall have a good laugh about it later,” Merlin put in. “She sounds like a stuffy goose to me, and I should not worry what she thinks of you.”

“Gundrea may be fearsome on the outside, but she has a kind heart,” Arthur said, remembering a visit to Ector’s castle when he had been a boy, and Gundrea turning a blind eye to his sneaking meat scraps from the table in order to take them to a little foundling dog he had discovered haunting the stables and getting kicked at by the squires. 

“Besides,” he continued, “you are not simply a blacksmith’s daughter who was tending the chickens and pigs a week before. You spent years as—as Morgana’s maid, and know perfectly well how to comport yourself among nobility.”

It was still hard to speak Morgana’s name or think of the times before—the good times when he had been a prince and she a lady and their father alive. Days of swordplay, hunting, and camaraderie that he had never fully appreciated until they had been snatched from him, gone without hope of return, the shadow of the crown no longer haunting him but falling full upon his brow. 

A swamp of melancholy threatened to entrap him. But then Merlin discovered upon rising that he had put his tunic on backwards, and Arthur could not help but laugh at his disgruntled countenance.

“Where is Albreda?” Arthur asked as Merlin clasped his mantle at his throat with the jeweled dragon pin that had belonged to his father.

“In her corner—molting and getting droppings over everything,” Merlin replied and shot a dark look towards Albreda’s perch before fussing with the heavy folds of dark red wool. 

“Well, go fetch her,” Arthur ordered, and Merlin complied with poor grace. Albreda, for her part, looked none too pleased to be taken onto Merlin’s wrist, and there was much fluttering and squawking. A state of active dislike had existed between Merlin and Albreda since the first day of Merlin’s service when he had startled the gyrfalcon during her midday nap, resulting in an ugly scratch on his forearm. Arthur rather thought he might have forgiven her had he not found out that one of his duties would be cleaning up after her as well as going along on hunting expeditions. Merlin, Arthur had swiftly discovered, did not care for hunting, a fact that he still could not fathom. 

“Do not make her sit through the morning with you, closeted up while you talk with Ector and Rocelin,” Guinevere said. Her own arm was extended so that Margaret could sew up her sleeve. Margaret, one of Leon’s sisters, had come to Camelot just after their marriage, and Gwen had taken her on as one of her ladies-in-waiting. “I think the weather will warm today, and I am sure that bird would prefer sunshine to a dark chamber.”

Albreda moved onto Arthur’s wrist, giving Merlin a parting hiss. “Of course I shan’t subject a lovely lady such as yourself to our boring prattle,” Arthur murmured, stroking Albreda’s chest. A cloud of age fogged her dark eyes now, and she hadn’t shown much interest in the cranes the last time he had been out with her. Samer, his falconer, had found a young gyrfalcon last month and started training her. Many a lord had his falcons quietly put to the knife when age caught up to them. 

[](http://s1181.photobucket.com/user/riventhorn/media/Merlin/riALBREDA_zps8c889ea3.jpg.html)

“Send her down to the mews,” Arthur told Merlin, “along with word to Samer that she’s to be given a choice meal. No old bits of fat and gristle.”

He could see Guinevere giving him an indulgent smile, and he bent to adjust his belt. Merlin had tied it far too tightly. 

“That will be the last of it, milady,” Margaret said, placing a white veil over Gwen’s hair and a golden circlet atop it. 

“Thank you. Wait for me in the corridor, Margaret, please.” 

She made a courtesy and left, softly closing the door behind her. 

Gwen was silent a minute and then said, “Ector and Rocelin will question your judgment. After Agravaine, after Morgana’s attempt to seize the throne, your first decision was to marry me. With the kingdom teetering on the brink of ruin. Even if they do not hate me at first sight, they will still think me an ill choice.”

“We are not teetering on the brink of ruin,” Arthur returned, although sometimes he felt they were doing exactly that what with the devastation Morgana’s army had caused, the tail end of a hungry winter just now beginning to fade, and his coffers drained of funds. 

“Money and land do not make a king,” Merlin said, dusting soot from his hands after adding another log to the fire. “Or a queen. Morgana learned that to her dismay. A king and a queen must have the loyalty and love of their people, and you have that. Both of you.”

“Money and land may not make a queen,” Gwen replied, “but they help. Kindness does not provide the coin to repair burned homes and fields, nor does it fill empty stores with grain.”

“What, then?” Arthur demanded. Had he not grappled with these very arguments himself before asking her to marry him, spending long nights lying in bed, thinking of the empty throne at his side? He did not need Guinevere to repeat them. “Tell me, then, what you would have preferred. If marrying me was such an ill choice.” He did not speak Lancelot’s name, but it hovered in the air between them. 

Gwen flinched but did not lower her eyes. “I only meant that it is hard. I would not want it any differently, and I love you no less. But it is hard, what you ask of me.”

“Ruling a kingdom is not an easy burden, yet we cannot shirk our duties.” The words came out more coldly than he had intended.

“That I know. I am only trying to say that we must not ignore the realities of the situation, and the problems we have caused by marrying.” She approached and put a hesitant hand on his arm. “It is not an ill thing, what we did. But it was not without its consequences, either.”

He nodded, drawing a breath and covering her hand with his. He should not have snapped at her like that or questioned her devotion to him. Had they not been through enough sorrows? But he could not deny that the memories still stung at times, particularly the sight of her in Lancelot’s arms. He had forgiven, but the scar on his heart was tender yet. “I am sorry. I did not sleep well, and it makes my temper short.”

“Your temper is always shorter than a mouse’s whisker,” Merlin said, reappearing at Arthur’s side, having melted into the background while he and Gwen quarreled. “Have some sops, my lord, to steady your humors.” He held out a cup of wine and some bread.

Arthur tried to wave him away. “I will not have Ector seeing me filling my stomach at this hour, like an invalid.”

Merlin persisted. “You know what you are like without food. Indeed, we have just had an apt demonstration.”

So Arthur took a chunk of bread and tried not to get the sleeve of his tunic in the wine. He must admit to being a little hungry, although the wine was going sour. He’d have to make sure they opened a new barrel for dinner. 

Gwen snagged a piece, and so did Merlin. “I thought you said this was for me,” Arthur groused, and the two of them smiled and exchanged a look, like they did whenever they thought he was being foolish. It was a very fond look, though, and Arthur found he did not really mind it.

He and Guinevere formally greeted Ector and Rocelin in the hall, sitting on the dais under canopies of rich crimson samite, shot through with threads of gold.

“Lord Ector of Blandford,” the marshal announced, “and his wife, Lady Gundrea.” 

Ector had more gray in his hair than when Arthur had last seen him, and his stocky figure had grown a bit heavier, but strength was still in his hand. He bowed and Gundrea did a courtesy. “Sire,” Ector said. There was a pause, and then he added, “and her majesty, the queen.”

Arthur let out a breath. “My lord and lady. I bid you welcome to Camelot.”

The marshal stepped forth again. “Lord Rocelin of Ellandun and Sir Hanry of Ellandun.”

Lord Rocelin was one of Arthur’s newest barons, rising to the seat after the death of his father just after midwinter. He was thin and tall, with a serious face, but Arthur thought his mouth looked as though it could easily fall into a smile. Sir Hanry looked none so cheerful. He was older and had a sparse beard and was staring disapprovingly at Guinevere. 

“Your majesties,” Rocelin said, bowing. “Sir Hanry was my late and beloved father’s most trusted advisor, and I have brought him with me so that he might give me counsel.”

“You are both welcome,” Arthur replied, and he rose, as did Gwen. “Perhaps, my lords, you would like to join me in a seat nearer to the fire?”

“And I believe I shall retire to the solar,” Gwen said. “Lady Gundrea, would it please you to accompany me?”

Gundrea fixed Gwen with a stern eye. “I should like nothing better. Your highness.”

Margaret came forward to Gwen’s side, as did another young girl, Ema, whom Gwen had favored. Together they moved off towards the stairs, already bent in conversation. Arthur sent a silent prayer after Guinevere that she should not find Gundrea too difficult.

Chairs were set before the fire at the end of the hall, and wine brought, and Merlin helped him take off his mantle for it was quite warm close to the blaze. 

With some of the solemnity of the occasion removed, Ector felt free to clap him on the shoulder. “It is passing good to see you, Arthur. We all feared the worst, when we heard that Camelot had fallen to the witch.”

 _Do not call her that_ , he wanted to shout. But railing against it would change nothing. So he smiled. “And your two sons came to my aid, joining in the fight to retake our fair city. I owe them and you many thanks.”

“And I should have been here, had the same fever that claimed my father not stricken me,” Rocelin said quickly.

“I know. I do not doubt your loyalty,” Arthur assured him. “And I am glad to finally make your better acquaintance. I remember you from the tourney at midsummer three years past, yes?”

Rocelin shrugged his shoulders, looking somewhat embarrassed. “I was here, although I must confess I almost wish you did not remember it. I was unseated at the first pass, to my shame.”

“Thanks to your squire neglecting to cinch your saddle properly,” Hanry said. 

“I fear it was more my own clumsiness,” Rocelin admitted with a self-deprecatory smile. 

Arthur suggested that they must spar together one afternoon.

“I should be honored, sire, though I doubt very much that I could stand against you on the field.” Rocelin’s voice sank into an awed whisper. “Against your blade, Excalibur, who could?”

Hanry nodded, his sour expression taking on shades of respect. “Perhaps we might be permitted to see it, sire. I should dearly like to set my eyes upon it.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably. He still felt shaky and awed himself, thinking on the experience of claiming that sword, and did not wish to discuss it in broad daylight.

Ector, however, was not to be put off from more pressing matters. “The sword shows that the grace of the gods is with you, sire. But I fear some do not see it that way.”

So, it was not unexpected, to hear this. “And which of the barons eyes the throne for himself?”

“Phillipe of Melcombe, of course, is always ready to entertain such thoughts.”

Arthur sighed. “And always ready to smooth away any accusations with generous donations of funds. I have uncovered no sign that he was in league with Agravaine, however.”

“Nor have I.” Ector frowned. “Agravaine appears to have colluded only with the witch. But there are some, sire, who—well, I must put it bluntly—they say you were tricked by your uncle and therefore can easily be tricked again.”

Arthur clenched his hand into a fist and tried not to let his discomfort show. 

“And—” Ector paused, looking unhappy.

“Say it, whatever it is,” Arthur ordered. 

Ector studied his goblet as he spoke. “Some say that your marriage is further proof that you can be swayed easily and the wool pulled over your eyes.”

Arthur forced his voice to stay steady. “They think Guinevere has somehow—somehow _beguiled_ me.” 

“You would not be the first to have your passions cloud your judgment,” Ector replied, his tone neutral.

“It is nonsense! Guinevere is brave and merciful. I married her because I thought she would be a good queen for this land. She has always protected the kingdom as fiercely as I have.” 

And it was true—she had always stood by him, unless he himself cast her away. Although that did not mean her heart had always been steady. Lancelot—

“I do not care what the barons think of my marriage,” he said aloud to stop his thoughts. “As king, I am expected to protect this kingdom and her people. Guinevere will help me do that.”

Sir Hanry looked as though he would like dearly to disagree but was too awed by the royal presence to do so. Ector, however, smiled. “Have the troubadours filled your head with tales of love, then?” He held up a hand as Arthur began to protest. “I do not think it shall pose too great a problem—provided we are able to solve some of the others troubling the land.”

“Burned villages and crops, starving children, impassable roads.” Arthur sighed. “And now a slow, cold spring on top of it. We have had too much of war in the past few years, and the land suffers for it.”

“Aye, it is a hard place we find ourselves,” Ector agreed.

“It is indeed these very matters that brought me here,” Rocelin put in. “My manor lands border the Rookwood, sire, and we are being overrun with outlaws. People can hardly travel from one village to another without being set upon. And coin for mercenaries must come from somewhere yet taxes were raised only last summer.”

“I have little to spare, I fear,” Arthur replied. He beckoned Merlin over. “Merlin, send word to Sir Leon and Sir Elyan that I require their presence. Leon and Elyan are among my most trusted knights,” he told the others, “and are charged with the defense of this city. They will have a good notion of whether there are any practicable ways to tackle your outlaw infestation, my Lord Rocelin.” He frowned. “I should like to come weed them out myself but—”

“The last thing we need is you with an outlaw’s arrow through your throat,” Ector exclaimed. “Hound’s Teeth, but Gorlois and I had enough troubles keeping Uther alive—do not make me repeat the trial with you.”

Talk of his father always awakened the sorrow that still seemed as sharp as it had during the night he spent by Uther’s body. Sometimes, waking in the morning, he had to remind himself of that vigil so he knew that yes, his father was dead and he was king. 

“I was close to my father as well,” Rocelin said quietly, reading the direction of Arthur’s thoughts. 

“Though Richard had none of Uther’s temper.” Ector shook his head, swirling the wine in his cup. “A proud man, and a hard man. But a strong leader that men were glad to follow, that was our late king. May his virtues live on in you, sire,” he added, raising his cup.

Leon and Elyan arrived at this juncture, relieving him of the need to find some appropriate response. He bade them be seated, explaining the task at hand.

“So, this is the queen’s brother?” Sir Hanry said abruptly. “A…blacksmith, was it?”

Elyan tensed at the derision in his tone, but he replied calmly, “Once, yes. Now I serve the king with my fellow knights.”

“The king has invited me to spar with him,” Rocelin interjected, laying his hand on Hanry’s arm. “Perhaps you might like to join us, Sir Elyan.”

Elyan agreed and the moment passed. Still, Arthur was aware of the attention focused on Elyan as they discussed taxes, repairs to the king’s highway, and the difficulties of capturing outlaws who could scatter to the four winds in a heartbeat. Ector, Rocelin, and Hanry were judging Elyan—and by extension the other knights Arthur had raised to his inner council. 

At last, he felt Merlin’s touch upon his shoulder with the announcement that dinner was ready and would the lords care to remove to table? 

“Her majesty sends word that she will be dining in the solar, along with the Lady Gundrea,” Merlin added, holding out Arthur’s mantle. “It grows chilly away from the fire, sire.”

“How goes it with her?” he asked softly as Merlin dressed him. “Do you know?”

“I heard from Peter as he went to help lay the table, that _he_ had heard from John, who was sent to the stables to bring a kitten that the Lady Margaret particularly fancied, that the ladies were cheerfully doing embroidery and listening to the tale of _Troilus and Cressida_.”

“Which just happens to occur during a siege set in motion by the impetuous actions of Helen and Paris.” Arthur grimaced. “Gundrea is not striving for subtlety, is she?”

“It is only a tale, my lord, I am sure you read too much into it. And besides, Gwen will not let a piece of poetry unsettle her.”

“You are right,” Arthur admitted as they walked to the table, set now with a white tablecloth and cups of silver. Guinevere could manage on her own, and for him to interfere would only suggest that he doubted her abilities.

“I quite like Lord Ector,” Merlin continued, readying the ewery of fragrant water that Arthur might wash his hands before eating. “He and I would have much to talk about.”

Arthur gave him a disbelieving look. “What on earth could you have in common with Ector?”

“The troubles of trying to keep headstrong kings safe.”

“Merlin, who is the person always saving you from swords and axes and your own idiocy? I am.”

“You go on thinking that, sire.” Merlin stepped back, though not before setting Arthur’s knife and spoon askew. On purpose, of course. 

“Is that your servant, sire?” Rocelin asked, sounding amazed. He was seated next to Arthur’s left, Ector on his right. Sir Hanry had been relegated to a lower table.

“No, he is a plague set upon me by the gods,” Arthur replied, not missing Merlin’s muttered, “Likewise, my lord,” from behind him. 

Rocelin regarded them a moment longer, brow furrowed. “I have heard that the royal kitchens are without equal,” he said at last, passing on to another topic. Arthur did not blame him—he had trouble fathoming Merlin himself sometimes and could not claim Rocelin’s excuse of a mere hour or two’s acquaintance. 

“I have only just brought on a new cook, but he has already proved his worth twice over. Perhaps we may delight in some eels in a red wine sauce or beef tongue served with a touch of mint.” Arthur reflected for a moment. “Would you had been here at midwinter, for we enjoyed the most well-cooked venison I have ever tasted—spiced to perfection. Of course, the saucer must have his due as well.” 

“You had best not tell Hanry about him, or he may steal him away.” Rocelin chuckled. “Such a fuss over the _sauce cameline_! I thought Hanry would throw a fit right there in the hall.” 

“I am rather particular about cinnamon myself,” Arthur admitted. “Even a pinch too much can ruin the flavors of a dish. Ah—here is the carver for the trencher.”

Simon, the royal carver, inevitably made his tasks into a bit of a show—flourishing his knives and fussily trimming the edges of the bread to his satisfaction. Then the first course was brought forth—not eels, but a fine pike, roasted with ginger and sugar. Arthur directed that Simon should bestow the choicest cut on Lord Rocelin, and then serve Lord Ector before giving him a portion. 

“This is but a prelude to tomorrow,” he said after a few bites had dulled the edge of his hunger. “We shall have a true feast at supper. And in the morning, I thought that perhaps my lords might care to join me for a hunt.”

“An excellent suggestion!” Ector boomed. “Why, I have not been out since the autumn—too damnably cold this winter. Shall we take the hawks and try for a bird or two? Unless your majesty prefers the dogs?”

“No, the hawks will be suitable. I shall send word to my falconer to be ready for an early start. Though, of course, I always keep a merlin close to my hand.”

It was an old jest, but Merlin still flushed at it. 

A band of minstrels hired for the occasion began tuning, and soon the rebec player struck a lively tune, sawing his bow across the strings and joining his voice to the melody. 

“Some of them be true of love, beneath the girdle but not above,” he sang. “Yet all they be not so.”

“My Lord Rocelin,” Arthur said, as they waited for the second course to be brought. “Do you have a wife at home or a lady in mind for the honor?” 

“There is a woman who has my affections, sire, but has not yet consented to a marriage. I have, in fact, composed a few songs to her—praising her grace and chastity, the perfection of her mouth and eyes—all the usual poetic phrases, I fear, for I am none too skilled at it.”

“You should speak to Sir Elyan, for he also enjoys verse and even plays a citole from time to time.”

“Truly?” Rocelin looked pleased. “Then he is indeed a worthy knight. Too few possess virtues off the battlefield as well as on it.”

“He is very noble.” Arthur ran his finger along the hilt of his knife, smiling a little. “I have often found that nobility does not depend on blood or heraldry.”

“I find your philosophies…intriguing.” Rocelin tilted his head. “Come, explain this to me further.”

“The minstrels sing of love striking a man upon the first sight of a noble woman,” Arthur said slowly. “Perhaps for some, this is true. But I had known Guinevere many years without Venus awakening a passion within me. And then I saw her grief at the death of her father, and thought that no other woman had ever shown such devotion as she did.” 

He hesitated, not quite wanting to share the next bit, when he had made a fool of himself, when he had been so arrogant and unconscionably rude to her. But she had seen the nobility—well, the nobility that he strove to exhibit—inside him anyway. He could never forget how she had offered him her token to wear—offered it to _him_ and not just to the prince that captured the fancies of so many ladies. In that moment, he had seen her true virtues as well. Love had claimed him, and he had been so taken with her grace that he had kissed her, little reckoning the consequences. “She did me a kindness,” he said at last, “and gave me hope that my affections might be returned.”

And then there was Merlin, of course, who had been the first to begin showing him the unlikely places where true devotion, courage, and love could be found. But it was harder to find the words to explain their bond. He could not take refuge in the language of courtly grace when it came to Merlin. 

He turned to look at Rocelin. “Should we have been condemned to always conceal our love? To be forced into lies and unfaithfulness? Must nobility always be accompanied by fine clothes and high estate?”

Rocelin appeared thoughtful. “You begin to convince me, sire. I look forward to our time together, that I might learn more of these curious notions.”

“So, a bird am I?” Merlin said as the dinner concluded and Arthur rose from his seat. “Would you put jesses on me and hood me, too?”

“If I thought it would keep you out of trouble, yes.” 

Merlin snorted and grabbed a bit of baked apple that was left over, popping it into his mouth.

“Leave that for the almoner,” Arthur admonished. “The poor need to eat, and you know Gaius has a dinner waiting for you.” 

Gaius refused to eat in the hall, claiming that he’d be put in an early grave if he did as no cook ever had the least notion of dietetics and paid no attention to the moist and cold or warm and dry natures of ingredients. He did not want Merlin’s health imperiled, either, but Merlin still nibbled on Arthur’s dishes whenever he had half the chance. Arthur did not let on to Gaius about it, and Merlin did not tell Gaius about the _reresoper_ Arthur and his knights often indulged in late at night. Gaius would be horrified at the thought of eating at such an hour, not to mention the quantities of wine often consumed (mostly by Gwaine), the gambling, the jesting, and the flirting (again, mostly by Gwaine). 

He sent Merlin off with orders to attend him again for supper and then made his way to his chambers. He hesitated a moment at the door, bracing himself in case Gundrea was still present, but when he entered there was only Gwen, sitting in a patch of sunlight by the window. She looked tired, but she smiled when she saw him.

Tossing the crown onto the bed, he caught her hands and pulled her up into an embrace. She laughed and rested her head on his shoulder for a moment. 

“Is that any way to treat the symbol of your lordship?” she teased. “If it rolled off and got a dent, Merlin would have your head, you know.”

“The damn thing is heavy,” Arthur grumbled, letting her sit down again and taking a seat next to her. “Now tell me, how was it?”

Gwen shrugged and sighed. “Fair enough, I think. Gundrea did not seem to hate me, at any rate, and when I told her about my plans for improving the drainage systems in the lower town, she seemed intrigued and supportive.” She laughed softly. “And she told me a few tales of her own—all about a certain little prince who used to come visit their manor.” 

Arthur stretched out, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Sweet mercy—was it the time I fell into the washing tub or when I cut up one of her best linen cloths to make pennants?”

“Both, actually.” Gwen didn’t try to hide her smile. “She said she spanked you for the last.”

He felt his face heat at the memory. “She did. But she didn’t tell my father about it.”

Gwen nodded. “I like her, even though she is a touch intimidating. I hope she comes to like me as well.”

“Who could help but like you?” 

Gwen heaved a sigh. “All the ladies who are afraid that your example will mean their husbands will feel free to throw them out in favor of the alewife or grocer’s daughter they’ve been tupping.”

He laughed. “That’s absurd. Just because a man enjoys warming his prick in a woman doesn’t mean he wants to be married to her.”

“And do you speak from personal experience, sire?” Gwen asked, her voice becoming a little chilly.

“Of course not!” He cleared his throat. “I am not gallivanting about with other women.”

“I know,” she said, relenting, but then added, “I have long known who has your affection.”

He suspected her words alluded to something more, but he kept silent, not wanting to open another wasps’ nest after already arguing with her that morning. Guinevere watched him for a moment and then stood up, briskly shaking out her tunic. 

“Well, the afternoon wears away. I think I shall go out to the garden and see how the apple trees are coming along.”

“You will be at supper?” he asked.

She nodded. “Is Sperling going to be playing?”

“Unless Walter hired a different minstrel without telling me, yes. Has he written a new ballad for you?”

“He promised to have something ready weeks ago, and I’m impatient.” Gwen paused at the door. “And will you grant me a dance?”

“I think I can manage a dance,” he said, and she smiled at the reference to an evening long ago, in the cramped surroundings of her father’s house, and Arthur asking—quite condescendingly, as he would come to see—for a bowl to wash in.

When she had gone, he remained sitting in the sunshine. He should really stir himself and see if his chancellor had any pressing correspondence for him to attend to. But he had been up earlier than was his wont this morning, and the sun was so warm, and he would just close his eyes for a moment.

He woke to long fingers carding gently through his hair. 

“Arthur.”

“Mmmhmm?”

Merlin chuckled. “Have you been sleeping in your chair all afternoon?”

He blinked and winced as he tried to turn his neck. “Ow.”

“Ah, the trials of royalty,” Merlin commented, but he moved behind him and began kneading at his shoulders and neck.

Arthur melted into it, almost dozing off again.

“None of that now.” Merlin kissed the top of one of his ears. “I have to dress you for supper.”

“I’d rather not, just yet.” He fumbled about for Merlin’s wrist and tugged at him, trying to draw Merlin’s hand lower. 

“You know Gaius thinks it unhealthy to exercise the baser urges before a meal,” Merlin said, even as he allowed Arthur to place his hand where he wanted it. 

Arthur slumped in the chair, tilting his head back. “Don’t bother me with—unh, just— _yes_.”

Merlin had pushed up his tunic and found the tip of his cock already poking above his braies. Now he had a good handful, squeezing and stroking. 

Arthur managed to pry open his eyes again. He stared at Merlin’s plump mouth. “Are you hungry?” he rasped, arching on the last word as Merlin slid a finger under his balls. 

“A little.”

Arthur tilted his head. “Go on, then.”

Merlin slid to his knees and put his hands on Arthur’s waist, holding him still. He started kissing along Arthur’s shaft, his breath tickling the sensitive skin until Arthur thought he might weep with it. 

“Hurry. I can’t— _ah_ —can’t keep our guests waiting.”

“Oh, now you’re in a rush,” Merlin said, amused, but he sucked at Arthur’s cock—almost daintily, like a fox kit suckling at its mother’s teat. 

Arthur relished the warm heat, relished getting to put his hands in Merlin’s hair, steadying him and thrusting up, then falling back and letting Merlin take him deeper. 

When he came, a thick rivulet of his spending slid down his cock. Merlin chased it with his tongue, lapping it up.

It made Arthur whimper and spurt a little more. 

Then Merlin rested his forehead on Arthur’s stomach, his own hand moving swiftly, pumping himself. Arthur traced the shell of his ears, very, very lightly, and then gripped the back of his neck, holding him while Merlin shuddered out his release.

[](http://s1181.photobucket.com/user/riventhorn/media/Merlin/riSMUT_zps401bb111.jpg.html)

“There.” Arthur petted his hair, giving them a few moments more. “Up, now. Help me up,” he made himself say at last.

Merlin staggered upright and gave him a hand. They both stumbled together, teetering and laughing. 

“Mercy, I’m getting too old for such exertions anywhere but the bed,” Arthur said ruefully, rubbing his leg. 

“You just need to get out on the training field more often,” Merlin said over his shoulder as he poured some water into a basin. “Lord Rocelin might beat you in your match.”

“Ha!” Arthur scoffed. “As if that day should come.”

Merlin cleaned him, scrubbing away the sticky aftermath of their pleasure, and helped him straighten his braies and hosen. “The dark blue surcoat tonight, I think. With a red tunic under it,” he said, staring critically at the wardrobe. 

“I bow to your sartorial expertise,” Arthur teased, and Merlin flicked the wet cloth at him with a huff. 

Guinevere hastened in while Merlin was dressing him in the clean clothes, Margaret close on her heels. “I thought you were out with Leon and the barons,” she said, looking surprised.

“I may have fallen asleep for a bit,” he admitted. 

“No wonder Leon was looking so harried, then.” Gwen stripped down to her linen shift, Margaret readying a new tunic, embroidered with white flowers. “He was showing Ector and Rocelin the rebuilding efforts in the lower town.” She made an irritated noise as her hair caught in the neck of the tunic as she pulled it on. “And despite warmer weather today, I’m afraid the apple seedlings shan’t make it.”

“We’ll replant, then. Did you speak to Walter about restocking the fish pond?”

“Yes, he has the matter well in hand. I’m more concerned about the price of wheat. It’s risen twofold in the past weeks, and there have been problems with diluted grain.”

“I’ll speak to the baker’s guild. They should be keeping a close watch over these things. And what of the people themselves?” He put on a thick gold necklace, heavy with rubies and pearls, and though of how much grain such a thing could buy. “Are things at a bad pass, yet?”

Although her change in station had altered many things, Gwen still made a point of visiting her old neighbors and friends. And people in general seemed easier with approaching her—easier than they did with him, a fact which made him a little jealous, even as he was glad of it.

“There is hunger,” she said. 

Merlin said softly, “There is hunger every winter.” 

“I will not let anyone starve,” Arthur declared, and they both looked at him as though he was being a spoiled, naïve prince again. “I _will not_.”

“I am more worried about next year.” Gwen’s brow was drawn in worry. “If the cold continues and kills the new grain…” 

They fell silent. 

“I will not have it,” Arthur burst out. “I will not let my people suffer another year of hardship. When will it be enough? War, beasts of sorcery, terrors from beyond the grave—all this they have endured. I want to give them peace—peace and enough food for their tables.”

“You will,” Merlin said, as he always did.

“I have faith in you, sire,” Margaret added, pale and shy at speaking in his presence, but determined nonetheless. 

He could not demand of them how he would fulfill this trust they had placed in him. That was his burden, and not theirs. But he should like to, nonetheless, for his own will often seemed an insignificant, hapless thing set against the grinding power of the fates and the darkness that lived in the roots of the House of Pendragon, sending nightmare flowers blossoming beside the tender green leaves he strove to bring forth.

“We missed your company this afternoon, sire,” Ector said. “Nothing untoward has occurred, I trust?”

“No, just some routine but pressing business to attend to,” Arthur replied, silently promising Merlin an afternoon in the stocks if he _dared_ to laugh.

Merlin did occasionally show some signs of self preservation, however, and kept silent.

For this meal, Gwen sat next to him, with Lord Ector on her left. The Lady Gundrea sat by Arthur, and immediately turned to speak to him, her plump cheeks already a little flushed from the wine. 

“My lady,” he said, hoping to forestall her, “allow me to compliment you on—”

“None of that now, sire,” she interrupted, wagging a finger at him. “I want to know why you put us in the tower chamber. Such a climb up all those stairs! Do you think me a maiden?”

“I only thought the prospect much more pleasing from there,” Arthur replied meekly. 

“Pretty views! When I can hardly get my breath to speak!”

“I shall have the steward move you to more suitable—” 

“I had us moved this morning,” Gundrea said, riding over him again. “I only bring it to your attention to ask you to show more courtesy to those of us who are growing long in the tooth.”

“I apologize, milady.” 

Her mood changed abruptly, and she laughed, patting his arm. “Youth cannot understand age, sire. But you were always a kind lad, and I should hate for that crown to have changed you.”

“It has not changed him,” Guinevere said, putting her hand over his. “I can attest to that.”

“I shall make up my own mind on it, your highness,” Gundrea replied. Gwen drew a breath, and Arthur sat forward a little in his seat, putting himself between them.

“You must tell me how your daughters are faring. Surely Hilde is almost twenty now?”

He succeeded at keeping Gundrea occupied, and Gwen seemed to be having no troubles entertaining Ector, particularly once they discovered a common enthusiasm for gardening and embarked on a long discussion of the impossibilities of grape cultivation in their climate and the horrors of imported wine.

When Sperling stepped forward, though, the hall fell silent. 

“The queen’s minstrel,” Arthur said to Gundrea. “He is very talented, by all accounts.”

Sperling doffed his hat, performing an elaborate bow to Arthur and his queen. “Will milady forgive the lateness of this composition?” he asked.

“Of course.” Gwen smiled. “But only if you promise to sing it thrice, for I know the company will not swiftly grow tired of it.”

“I beg you to wait until you have heard it before bestowing such praise.” Sperling tuned his citole, humming.

Arthur, who far preferred ballads recounting jousts or other knightly quests to Sperling’s usual amorous fare, wished he would hurry along with it. Still, when Sperling began singing, his clear tenor filling the hall, he had to admit that the man had a fine voice. 

_Keep a watch, watchman there, on the wall,_  
 _While the best, the loveliest of them all_  
 _I have with me until the dawn._  
 _For the day comes without our call,_  
 _New joys all,_  
 _Lost to the dawn,_  
 _The dawn, oh, the dawn!_

_Watch, friend, watch there, and call and cry,_  
 _I’m rich indeed, all I wish have I._  
 _But now I’m vexed by the dawn,_  
 _And the sorrows, that day brings nigh,_  
 _Make me sigh,_  
 _More than the dawn_  
 _The dawn, oh, the dawn!_

_Keep a watch, watchman there, on the tower,_  
 _For your lord: jealously he holds his power,_  
 _He’s more vexing than the dawn:_  
 _While words of love we speak here._  
 _But our fear_  
 _Comes with the dawn,_  
 _The dawn, oh, the dawn!_

_Lady, adieu! No longer dare I stay;_  
 _Despite my wish, I must be away._  
 _Yet heavily weighs the dawn,_  
 _How soon we’ll see the day;_  
 _To betray_  
 _Us, wills the dawn,_  
 _The dawn, oh, the dawn!_

A haunting melody accompanied the words, and it made him think of mornings when he had awoken in Gwen’s little bed, with her warmth pressed along his side, and had to leave, stealing up to the castle like a thief lest his father find out where he had been. And then the thought occurred to him that Sperling might have had exactly that same situation in mind when he wrote the song. He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. He was not sure that he wanted such things sung about before the entire court. 

A glance at Guinevere revealed that she must have been minded of the same moments, for her cheeks were flushed, and she had to clear her throat before she could speak. 

“Magnificent, Sperling. Your songs always touch my heart.”

With the approval of the queen, the rest of the court began applauding and clamoring to hear it again. 

Arthur took a sip of wine to steady himself and tried not to mind it.

“I notice he did not sing about the poor servant who had to rouse before dawn to fetch his lord back safely,” Merlin groused later, when Arthur and Gwen had retired to their chambers. Sperling had sung the song thrice, as promised, and then a number of others before he was joined by three other minstrels for dancing music. Arthur had danced with Gwen, Gundrea, and then Margaret, who kept stumbling over his feet due to nerves.

“No one wants to hear about the servant, Merlin,” Arthur said, just as Gwen murmured, “And we have never forgotten your loyalty to us.”

She gave him a look. “ _Have_ we, Arthur?”

And of course he had not, nor the way Merlin had stared seriously into his eyes after Arthur had bedded him for the first time and said, “I do not want this to make things wrong with you and Gwen.” It had been the morning after their confrontation with the dragon, both of them still bruised and sore, but happy, triumphant. And much as he had on the day he kissed Gwen for the first time, Arthur had thrown aside all care for the consequences and at last given in to his longing to smother Merlin’s insolence with a kiss. 

Arthur had stammered, “I could never choose between you. Not when I care for the both of you so. I know that makes me greedy, that it is unfair—” But Merlin had hushed him, saying quietly, “How could I deny you happiness, Arthur? I could never do that.” He had stroked the new, tender scars on Arthur’s chest, adding, “And I have the deepest fondness for Gwen, too, though in a different way than yours.” 

He kept that moment close in his heart, one of the rare times that he and Merlin had spoken openly of a love more often expressed in gestures and hidden behind teasing words. 

As it was now, for he said, “Merlin knows I mean nothing by it,” and darted up, grabbing Merlin round the waist and managing to get at a few of his ticklish spots, while Merlin yelped and thrashed about. Merlin had just dived over the bed, snagging a pillow, which he was attempting to use to fend Arthur off, and Gwen was laughing, watching them, when a knock came at the door.

“Enter,” Arthur called, seizing the distraction to nab the pillow and knock Merlin on the head with it. He glanced over his shoulder and then stopped, abashed. “Lord Ector.”

Ector bowed and came inside, a pensive, half-smile on his face. “So, these are the ones that you spend your private hours with. You are very different from your father, sire.”

Arthur straightened. “I trust Guinevere and Merlin with my life.”

“You mistake me. I do not mean to criticize.”

Relaxing a trifle, Arthur bade Ector take a seat while Merlin poured a cup of wine. “What brings you here at this late hour?”

Ector sighed, staring into the fire for a moment before speaking. “Matters that I did not think it wise to discuss in the wide air of the hall, with many ears to hear them.”

“Go on.”

Ector leaned forward, one hand tight around his cup, the other clenched on his knee. “Sire, recovering from the wars and other troubles that have plagued us in the last years will be difficult but hardly impossible. Camelot will prosper, of this I have no doubt. But what of it? Of what use is thinking for the next season or two when it can all come crashing down again the moment Morgana reappears?”

In his heart, in its darkest, most secret depths, Arthur dared to call her “sister.” He forced his mind past it. “We have had no word of her since we drove her from the city. Perhaps she was—mortally wounded in the battle." 

“Only fools rest their hopes on such a chance.” Ector scowled. “She is mad, obsessed. Like—”

He stopped abruptly, and silence fell. Arthur wondered what he had been going to say. Like…who? Uther? His father had been ill those last months, yes, but never mad. And his father had acted always for the good of the kingdom. Morgana acted only for herself, goaded at first by Morgause, pushed onto this hateful path until she could not turn back. It was Morgause’s poisoned words that had made Morgana into this spiteful, vindictive shadow of her former self. Why couldn’t she see that Uther had loved her? That her _brother_ loved her? 

“Sire,” Ector continued, “I urge you to consider seeking a treaty with her the next time she appears.” 

“She would laugh at me.” He could hear the cold fury in his tone. Gwen touched his arm, but he shook her off. “She wants the throne for herself. Nothing else will satisfy her.”

Ector hesitated and then asked, “Not even lifting the ban on magic?”

“And thereby condone all that she has done? Never!” 

“But, sire, you have already allowed the druids—”

“They are peaceful. They do not seek to hurt and harm and kill.” He stood up, pacing to stand by his window, turning his back on Ector, on Gwen and her concerned eyes, on Merlin, who looked pale and unhappy at Arthur’s fury.

“Morgana destroyed my— _our_ father. You didn’t see him those last months, Ector. You didn’t have to watch while…” The window-pane was cool against the palm of his hand. “And then, when he was dying, I—I dishonored him. Everything he had stood for, I cast aside.”

“Arthur, no.” It was Merlin, suddenly close to him, trying to comfort. “That was not your fault. You must—”

“I am the king!” He shouted it at all of them, whirling around. “And I will hold my own counsel in this matter. I will not treat with her. I cannot forgive her for murdering my people. And I will not let loose her magic on this kingdom.”

Ector bowed his head in assent. “Sire.”

When he had left, Arthur tried to gather himself. He was back in a stinking cell again, finding his father huddled on the floor, seeing no trace of the proud, confident man he had known and loved. He dashed a hand across his eyes, fighting back errant tears. 

Warm hands settled on his shoulders, and Gwen embraced him, letting him hide his grief in the dark curls of her hair, which smelled of the cinnamon and cloves she had washed it with. 

When he felt able, he stepped away, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Merlin was hovering in the background, and Arthur wished he would come over, wanting Merlin’s wiry arms just as much as Gwen’s soft curves. But things had been awkward, ever since the marriage. It was no longer a simple matter of Merlin spending the night in his bed. There was Gwen to consider, and her position. Arthur had foolishly believed that he could carry on with the both of them, unchanged. But of course marrying had changed things, and he did not know how to set it all aright. 

At last he said, “I shall want my new gloves tomorrow, Merlin. And the leather gauntlets.”

“Yes, sire,” Merlin replied and came over to ready him for bed.

The weather on the morrow was fine indeed—a light mist that soon gave way to sunshine and a cloudless sky. The warmth held, and Arthur allowed himself the hope that perhaps the spring planting would go well and soon green shoots would be springing up throughout the countryside, ripe with the promise of a good harvest.

They decided to ride into the forests to the east of the castle and so took the smaller sparrowhawks for hunting pigeons. The close trees prevented the entire party from riding together, and they soon had broken off into little groups. Arthur ended up with Leon, Rocelin, and Merlin, who should have been back with the other servants, setting out a picnic dinner in a meadow. 

Arthur had learned soon enough—around the third day of their acquaintance—that Merlin usually did not bother to associate himself with “should” and “ought to.” He had also soon realized that insisting on such proprieties would mean losing Merlin’s smile, and the friendly bump of his bony shoulder as they walked through the courtyard, and the way Merlin’s ears flushed when he sponged off Arthur’s sweaty skin after a practice bout or two with the knights.

It had taken much longer for him to admit to himself how dear those things were to him. And it was a rare moment when he could overcome his reticence and speak of it to Merlin. 

So he said, “Try not to fall into a gorse bush, Merlin. Or we’ll spend all day picking prickles out of you,” instead. 

The gorse bushes were, in fact, showing pretty yellow blossoms. Flowers wreathed the blackthorn thickets as well—dainty clusters of white that covered the branches so thickly, it could almost have been snow. On his wrist, his sparrowhawk’s talons gripped his leather glove tightly. He could sense the bird’s eagerness to be on the wing, speeding along sun-warmed currents of air, past tender leaves still wrinkled from being cooped up through the thaw.

When at last he let her go, she shot upwards, a dark blur disappearing from sight. 

“I have been giving more thought to your outlaw problem, Rocelin,” Arthur said. A soft thud sounding among the branches meant that his hawk had struck her first bird, and he gestured for Merlin to go fetch it.

“It is vexing, sire,” Rocelin agreed. “Is there a chance of acquiring some mercenaries, do you think?”

Leon urged his horse closer. “The band that I have heard of in Gedref seems like the best chance.”

“I will inquire of Princess Mithian about them and their reputation,” Arthur decided, gathering his hawk onto his wrist again. Rocelin sent his off. 

“Some of the men in Ealdor turned outlaw,” Merlin commented as he swung back up onto his horse, pigeon in hand. “It was only because they did not have land, and no way of earning their living. Even if they had been given land, they would not have had the plows and oxen to work it.” 

“That doesn’t justify robbing others,” Arthur reminded him.

“They were hungry.” Merlin hunched a little in his saddle. “I know it was wrong, but they didn’t have anywhere else to turn. Most of them died of fever, living in hovels in the woods with none to care for them.”

Arthur set his hawk loose again. “It is a king’s duty to maintain the law. Now see to the birds,” he added when Merlin opened his mouth again. 

They had a full string of pigeons and were contemplating returning when the shouting broke out. 

“Which way is it?” Arthur demanded, fearing the worst. All this talk of outlaws—if Guinevere— He handed his hawk to Merlin, readying Excalibur in its sheath. 

“That way, I think, sire,” Leon said, pointing to the south after listening a moment.

“You’re certain?” Rocelin asked. “The echoes—”

“No time to debate the matter!” Arthur heeled his horse round and set off as fast as possible, ducking hanging branches. Merlin was close at his side, Leon and Rocelin behind them.

After a short, but tense, ride, they crashed through a spinney of birch and hawthorn and found the rest of the party on the other side. He spotted Gwen immediately—still astride her horse, which was tossing its head in agitation. Ector and Elyan were on their feet, trying to keep a hold of their hawks. And Gwaine and Sir Hanry were yelling and grappling with each other, their faces red with anger. As Arthur watched, horrified, Gwaine drew his sword. 

“Stop this!” he shouted, vaulting to the ground. “I command you to stop this instant!” 

They did not heed him. Sir Hanry evaded Gwaine’s first, wild swing, and got his own sword free. The blades met with a dull clang. 

Arthur grabbed Gwaine by the shoulder, and Gwaine shoved him back, his elbow catching Arthur in the stomach. 

“Hanry!” Rocelin ran towards them. 

Arthur drew his sword and stepped between the two men. Rocelin twisted a hand in Hanry’s tunic, halting him, but Gwaine readied another swing. Arthur parried the blow. “Would you strike your king?” he demanded.

Gwaine faltered and slowly lowered his sword.

“Have you lost your wits?” Arthur glared at him and then glanced at Sir Hanry, who was breathing heavily, anger little abated. “What happened here?”

“He insulted Sir Elyan,” Gwaine said. “And the queen!”

“Is this true?” Arthur asked the others. Merlin had helped Gwen down from her horse, and she had drawn near. Ector soothed his hawk, frowning. “Is this true, Sir Hanry?”

Hanry hesitated. “Sir Gwaine mistook my words,” he said at last. “I meant no insult.”

“You lie!” Gwaine started at him again, and Leon hauled Gwaine back. 

“I was busy with the hawks,” Gwen said, “and did not hear.”

“Nor I, sire,” Ector added, and Elyan, too, had not caught the exchange.

“There has been a misunderstanding, then.” Arthur sheathed his sword. “Gwaine, you will apologize to Sir Hanry.”

“I shall not.” Gwaine stabbed a finger at Hanry. “He thinks himself above us, but he is no nobleman. Not in heart or mind. He is the one who offered the insult.”

“Sir Hanry is our guest. You _will_ apologize.”

“So you take his word over mine.” Gwaine shook his head slowly, disbelieving. “Just as your father did—valuing blood over loyalty and friendship.”

“ _Gwaine_ ,” Merlin said, unhappy.

“Sire,” Rocelin began, sounding embarrassed. “We do not require—”

“No.” Arthur held up a hand, angry himself now. If Gwaine thought he would get away with this open flouting of his authority— “He is going to apologize. He is going to obey his king and do as I ask.” 

Leon murmured something in Gwaine’s ear. 

Gwaine shook off Leon’s restraining hand, but his eyes fell. “I—apologize, Sir Hanry. I took offense where none was intended.” Arthur could practically hear his teeth grinding.

“The incident is forgotten, Sir Gwaine,” Hanry said stiffly.

“Tempers run quick when the hunting is good,” Ector interjected, trying to smooth the moment over. “And hunting also raises a fierce appetite! What say we go to our bread and meat?”

“An excellent notion, my lord,” Gwen replied. “Lord Rocelin, perhaps you will ride with me and tell me how my husband fared. I wager that my hawk out-flew the king’s.”

“You will be doomed to lose such a wager, madam,” Arthur called after them as they walked towards the horses, and Gwen gave him an arch look over her shoulder.

It took a while for the tense mood to dissipate, but by the time they were finishing off the meal with some fresh cheese, Hanry was carrying on a cordial discussion with Leon, and Gwaine was teasing Guinevere and bringing her blossoms to put in her hair. 

“You’re in a tolerant mood, sire,” Merlin observed as they watched Gwaine and Gwen.

“You know Gwaine means nothing by it,” Arthur replied, snagging another wedge of cheese. “He can’t help himself when he’s in the company of women.”

“Don’t be too hard on him for earlier.” Merlin gave him an anxious look. 

“You should spend less time worrying about Gwaine and more time attending to your duties. My napkin has run off again.”

Merlin’s expression turned to one of exasperation. “Only because you keep forgetting to hold on to it,” he objected and went to chase Arthur’s napkin, which kept being plucked up by the wind and tossed around the meadow.

“These outlaws,” Arthur said to Rocelin as they rode back to the castle, “is it as Merlin says? Are most simply young men with no gainful employment?”

“I confess that I am not sure,” Rocelin replied. “I imagine there are some hardened criminals amongst them, but yes, it could well be that many are farmers’ sons.”

Arthur nodded and was silent for a time. “This is what we shall do,” he said at last. “I am going to have the warden of the royal forest at Glastonbury sell a goodly acreage to the village there—they’ve been after it for years and are willing to pay a fine price. You will take the funds and let it be known that any who wish to abandon their lives outside the law will be paid to repair the bridges between your estate and Camelot. At least three were flooded out at last report.”

“You are too gracious, sire. I cannot ask you to part with such valuable lands for my sake.”

“Fond as I am of you, my lord, it is not for your sake that I do this,” Arthur returned quietly. “It is for theirs.”

Rocelin bowed his head. “You are right, of course.”

“It is only a temporary measure. But the best I can do at the moment.”

“It is more than many would do.” Rocelin glanced behind them at Merlin, who was riding too far away to have heard their conversation, and then looked back at Arthur. “Perhaps I will begin looking for nobility in the same places that you do, your highness.”

Arthur took his hawk back to the mews himself—it had been some time since he had visited Samer, and he wanted to collect Albreda. She rarely missed a banquet, and he would have her perched beside him that evening, as always.

Samer showed him the new gyrfalcon, a feisty little lady. Her eyes had only just been unseeled, and she was still apt to bite at her jesses. 

“We will hunt the wild winds together, you and I,” Arthur told her. “Keep me well apprised of her progress,” he added to Samer, who nodded.

“And don’t you be jealous,” he told Albreda, who had been straining on her perch, eager to get to him. “You are first in my affections, you know. That young fiend will not be gracing my chambers tonight. Only you have that honor.”

He was about to go outside, exchanging the dark interior of the mews and its smells of droppings and feathers for the clean air, when he caught sight of a falcon, its feathers shining in a narrow shaft of sunlight. 

“What is _she_ still doing here?” he managed, even as his throat closed tightly around the words.

“Sire,” Samer began, apologetic. “I did not like to lose a bird after so much training.”

Arthur shut his eyes. Albreda, sensing his distress, rustled her feathers. “You will let her go.”

“But—”

“ _Do as I say_.”

Samer bowed. “Yes, sire.”

He walked quickly from the mews, running Albreda’s silver chain between his fingers in an attempt to calm himself. 

_Morgana, her black hair come free of its veil and streaming in the wind as she flung her falcon into the skies. “If she is the first to return with a prize, you must buy me a mantle trimmed with ermine, Arthur.”_

_“And if my hawk is triumphant?”_

_Morgana gave him a laughing glance. “Then I shall speak sweetly to you for the day.”_

“I do not want to remember this,” he whispered, gaining the quiet of his solar. “I wish it had never been, for these thoughts to strike so deeply.” He let his head fall back against the cool stones. “Do you know, lady, what sorrow you have wrought in me?”

Footsteps in the corridor—the sound of Merlin whistling. He pushed away from the wall, composing himself, and bent over the table to read a missive left by his chancellor while he had been out.

Merlin took an inordinate amount of time dressing him for the banquet—fussing with the drape of his mantle, pricking his finger on the needle when he sewed up Arthur’s sleeves, insisting on switching to a pair of green hosen that provided a better contrast with his dark blue tunic, and dropping his brooch of garnets and jade behind the table, then crawling underneath to fish it out.

“Guinevere was done ages ago,” Arthur complained. “Imagine if you had to braid my hair. We should be here till dawn.”

“Gwen is done because she did not wait until the last moment to begin dressing,” Merlin admonished him. “Who was it who insisted on going out to the bailey to play with crossbows?”

“I was not _playing_ , Merlin. The next time I shoot an enemy off your back, you can thank your luck that I practice as much as I do.”

“Oh, of course. And it had nothing to do with a certain wager with Sir Leon regarding paces from the target, wind speed, and number of bolts?”

Arthur kept a dignified silence.

When at last Merlin pronounced him ready, he had to go in search of his queen so they could enter the hall together. He found her in the garden, sitting with her maidens by the thin little apple trees, which had struggled through the winter and looked quite tired out from the ordeal. Elyan sat next to them, strumming a citole and singing.

_Rest awhile, you cruel cares_  
 _Be not more severe than love._  
 _Beauty kills and beauty spares,_  
 _And sweet smiles sad sighs remove:_  
 _Laura, fair queen of my delight,_  
 _Come grant me love in love's despite,_  
 _And if I fail ever to honour thee,_  
 _Let this heavenly light I see,_  
 _Be as dark as hell to me._

He finished with a flourish and laughed. “I think I should stick to the sword.”

“It was lovely, Elyan, don’t be ridiculous,” Gwen said. She held out her hand. “There you are, Arthur. I was beginning to think Merlin was holding you captive for ransom.”

“A jug of ale and some pies is my price, milady,” Merlin said.

Arthur felt rather insulted. “Is that all I’m worth to you?” He took Gwen’s hand and pulled her to her feet.

Merlin pretended to consider the matter. “Hmm, I suppose I might hold out for _two_ jugs of ale.”

Gwen laughed, and so he twirled her around, making her catch her breath in surprise. “The two of you have no respect for your king.”

She leaned against him, muffling another laugh in his chest. 

“Love and respect go hand in hand, sire,” Lord Ector said, appearing around the archway. “I think we had best get inside or I fear the marshal of the hall may burst like a boiling pot.”

Arthur did not think a king should hustle, but he did—if the first course was ruined through delay, Osbert the cook might resign in high dudgeon, and he was not prepared to give up the man’s skill with sweets and savories for anything less than an assault on the city walls.

As they hurried into the hall, Margaret came rushing up, her face flushed, adjusting her veil.

“My apologies, milady,” she said to Gwen, and they whispered something together, and Margaret smiled, lowering her eyes. The knights seemed to be all in a dither, too, when they entered, and Arthur braced himself for some practical joke or other halfway through the feast.

The first course opened with a peacock, roasted and then stuffed back in its skin, tail arranged in an iridescent fan. It looked so lifelike that they almost expected it to rise from the platter and walk away. The _sotelty_ between first and second course _did_ walk away—or rather fly. A steaming pie was set before him, and when the carver opened it, blackbirds suddenly burst forth. There was, of course, a great deal of trouble later in getting them down from the rafters, but at the time, the surprise delighted all the assembly. Arthur sent his compliments to Osbert, along with a pouch of silver coin. 

He was a little relieved to be presented with a quotidian slice of pork in a vinegary sauce for the next course, though. 

“What can we expect next, sire?” Rocelin asked, dipping his knife into the silver saltcellar, fashioned in the form of a ship. “A roasted cock that crows?”

Before Arthur could answer, Leon’s voice suddenly rang out. His knight rose from his seat, holding out his wine cup. “My lords and ladies,” he said, “your majesties,” he added, bowing to Arthur and Gwen, “pray listen for I bring joyful news. My sister, the lady Margaret, has given her hand to Sir Percival, my loyal friend and one of the noblest knights of the realm.”

“When did _this_ happen?” Arthur asked amid the clapping and shouts of congratulations that followed. 

“Oh, Arthur.” Gwen looked amused. “They’ve been lovers since midwinter. Do you mean to say you’ve never noticed Percival staring at Margaret during every meal?” 

“I have had important matters of state occupying my attention,” Arthur replied, gesturing for Merlin to bring him some water to wash his hands with. The pork had been excellent but greasy. 

“Important matters of the stomach, more like,” Merlin said, bending over him with the ewery. 

Arthur glared. “Any more of your cheek, and I shall find a squire to pour my hippocras at the end of the meal.” Merlin had a weakness for the spiced wine and was always sneaking sips while waiting to refill Arthur’s cup.

The threat proved effective, but as it turned out, Merlin didn’t get a chance to enjoy the hippocras after all. Leon’s announcement set the wine and ale flowing at an even greater pace, and some of the bad feelings that had risen that morning began to return. Arthur watched with growing alarm as Gwaine grew louder and began gesticulating and shouting about “wretched nobles.” Sir Hanry, unfortunately, heard him, and his face began to darken.

“Merlin.”

“Yes, sire?”

Arthur gestured for Merlin to lean down closer. “I want you to get Gwaine out of here before he gets in another fight. Take him to the tavern, if you must. Just keep him out of the castle tonight. I’ll not have a repeat of earlier.”

Merlin nodded and relinquished his duties to another servant, threading his way through the tables to Gwaine. At first Gwaine looked obstinate, but then Merlin said something that made him break into a grin, and soon they were stumbling from the hall, Gwaine already leaning heavily on Merlin’s shoulder.

“Thank you, sire,” Rocelin said, not unaware of Arthur’s machinations. “I regret that Hanry has been…difficult. But I could not leave him behind. Not after his years of service to my father.”

“I understand. I only hope Gwaine’s behavior does not reflect poorly on all my knights.”

“Not at all. He is a good man, I can see that, if a bit hot-headed.”

“Well, wine and a woman will keep him satisfied and perhaps drive the memory of this morning from his head entirely. We can but hope.” He turned to Guinevere and consulted with her for a moment, then stood up, banging the table in order to command the hall’s attention.

“The queen and I offer our best wishes to the Lady Margaret and Sir Percival. In addition, we wish to give you a wedding present—a manor and estate to be yours and your heirs.”

Gasps from Margaret, Percival standing and bowing. “It is too much, sire. I could not—”

“Nonsense.” Arthur waved away his objections. “It is past time that I awarded you your knight’s fee. We will decide later on an appropriate location.” More clapping and congratulations. “Now someone send word to the buttery for another barrel of wine to toast their good health and Sir Percival’s prowess on the battlefield!”

It was late by the time he and Guinevere stumbled back to their chamber. Arthur’s head was reeling from the wine, and he only managed to take off his shoes before slumping down on the bed. Ema was with Gwen tonight, as Margaret was still giving dances down in the hall. Poor girl—her feet would be worn off by midnight. 

Ema stripped Gwen down to her linen shift before bidding her good night. Gwen put her hair in a loose braid before climbing into bed. She poked at Arthur. “Move over, dear heart, I’ve no room.”

Arthur complied with a groan, wondering if he was going to be sick. He wasn’t, though, and so he leaned against her, getting a few kisses.

She grimaced. “Ugh—your breath smells sour. How much wine did you drink?”

He hiccupped and considered the matter. “There were many toasts.”

“I know. That didn’t mean you needed to drink half a cup for each one.”

Arthur hummed in agreement. He decided that Gwen’s breasts looked like a lovely, soft sort of pillow, and rolled over, flattening his face against her stomach.

She laughed, the sound of it thrumming against his skin. “Is that where you’re sleeping, then?” She played with his hair, rubbing his scalp. It felt glorious, and he tried to ask for more, but the words got tangled up in his mouth.

He must have dozed off, for the next he knew, hands were sliding under his armpits, lifting him up.

“Oh, thank heavens you’re here, Merlin,” Gwen whispered. “He was getting a little heavy.”

Merlin grunted with the effort of lifting him. “You great big lump,” he said affectionately. “Let’s get you into bed.”

Arthur sleepily tried to help with removing his tunic and surcoat but got tangled up in it, arms all twisted. Merlin laughed quietly. “I’m doomed to spend the evening dealing with drunken knights, it appears. First Gwaine and now you.”

Gwen made a sympathetic noise. “I’m sorry you missed most of the banquet.”

“I saved you some hippocras. In a—” a yawn broke Arthur’s words. “In a jug on the table,” he finished, eyes drooping shut again. “Just needs to be warmed.”

“Thank you,” Merlin whispered and kissed the top of his head.

Arthur wanted a proper kiss, though, and tugged at Merlin until he got it. Then he sought one from Gwen, too. Satisfied at last, he scrunched down into the bed. Lovely, lovely, soft mattress.

Gwen asking Merlin to take the candle was the last he heard before sleep claimed him.

The next day was a subdued one about the castle, as everyone dealt with the effects of the night before.

Gaius went about proscribing remedies and dispensing advice about the dangers of overindulgence. 

“I shall instruct the cook to make you some barley-porridge with almond milk,” Gaius said, surveying Arthur, who was still abed, a cool cloth on his forehead. 

“There is no need—I will be fine in an hour or two,” Arthur protested. He had been fed barley-porridge incessantly as a child, or so it had seemed, and he had spent the years since avoiding it as much as possible.

Gaius quelled him with a stern glare. 

“Would you like me to read to you?” Gwen asked, taking his hand.

“No, I do not need to be coddled.” He made to get up, wincing at the ache in his head.

“None of that, now.” Gwen pulled him back down and tucked the blanket around him again.

“Is he being fretful?” Merlin asked, appearing with a basket of clean linens as Gaius went out. 

“ _No_ ,” Arthur said.

“Yes,” Gwen returned, contradicting. 

“If it makes you feel any better, Gwaine is throwing up into a bucket in his chambers,” Merlin said cheerfully.

Guinevere went to help Merlin put away the clothes, and they exchanged a little smile. Arthur had the feeling he had behaved rather foolishly last night, although he couldn’t recall a moment after leaving the hall. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he said after a time, staring up at the canopy. “That I should like to get away for a while.”

“Oh, and where should you go?” Gwen asked. She peered into the basket. “Haven’t they done my shifts yet? And what about Arthur’s red tunic?”

“Maud said they’d been running behind, what with her sister taking a chill and unable to work.” Merlin picked up the empty basket. “Should I ask them to do those specially?”

“I suppose there is no hurry. Make sure to inquire after Maud’s sister and ask if she needs anything. I’m sure Gaius might be able to make up some medicine for her.”

“I imagine she’ll be all right. In fact, I rather thought that she may not have taken a chill at all but spent last night with Stephen, the lad who helps with the sauces in the kitchen, and—”

“I’ve decided to visit Tintagel,” Arthur said loudly.

The other two fell silent. His heart beat fast, and he kept his eyes on the canopy.

“That’s where your mother was from, isn’t it?” Merlin finally asked. His voice was quiet, and Arthur could hear his careful footsteps approaching the bed.

“Yes.” Arthur took the cloth off his forehead and twisted it in his hands. “It passed to Agravaine after their father’s death. He left a steward in charge when he came to Camelot, but now…”

Merlin sat on the end of the bed. “Have you ever been there before?”

He shook his head. “Father didn’t like to go anywhere that reminded him of her.” He looked at Guinevere, who had also drawn nearer, a folded tunic forgotten in her hand. “It’s by the sea.”

“It sounds lovely,” she said, smiling. “I should like to see it, too. Perhaps I can get some cuttings, for the garden here.”

“Good. That’s settled then.” He felt relieved, to have it decided. It had been in the back of his mind ever since Agravaine’s death. Part of him didn’t want to go there, afraid it would have too much of his uncle in it. But Ygraine had lived there once, and he still craved any link to her that he could find. 

Stretching out his leg, he poked Merlin with his foot. “Now go and forestall Osbert from making that porridge. And if it comes to the worst, give it to the pigs!”

By evening, he felt quite recovered. In such good spirits, in fact, that he tumbled Gwen into bed after supper, kissing along her neck and stroking the inside of her thigh.

She hummed a pleased noise and helped him off with his tunic. They ended up sitting together on the bed, legs bent and crossed so that they were almost in an embrace, close enough that his stiffening cock sometimes brushed against her stomach. 

He liked rubbing his cheek along the smooth, warm skin of her arms while Gwen’s hands played along the spread of his shoulders. Her breasts were a temptation, though, and finally he hitched her closer so that he could cup them and brush his thumbs over her nipples. His cock was growing more insistent, but he wanted to bring her pleasure first. She laid her head on his shoulder while he teased and stroked her sex, and he could tell by the hitch in her breathing, hot against his neck, when he found the places that swelled her desire. 

Her body went rigid against him for a moment as she came, her voice straining to utter his name in a whisper that broke in the middle and ended up as a contented murmur along his skin. 

He could have held her all night like this, close in his arms, except that his own need thrummed insistently, and he couldn’t help pushing hopefully at her thigh.

She laughed, smiling, and straddled his legs, gripping his shoulders as she rose up enough that he could slip his cock against her cunt, edging the tip inside her with his fingers. Then she sank down as he pushed up, sliding into her. 

“Oh, that’s—” He drew a breath, holding Gwen’s hips and helping her lift up and down again. “That’s—”

“Can you not even remember your words?” Gwen teased, and then they kissed again as they rocked together until he thrust upwards with a final, frantic surge and spent himself. 

They clung together, breathing hard until they cooled enough to clamber apart. Lying down, he tucked Gwen against him, pulling a blanket up from the tangle at the foot of the bed. 

“Did you _really_ not know that Percival wished to marry Margaret?” Gwen asked after a few minutes of lying quietly, enjoying their shared warmth.

“I know that Percival still needs to work on his parries and that he has a habit of leaving his left side open.” Arthur tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I assume you didn’t know _that_ , milady.”

“Mmm, I suppose I did not.” She laughed a little and stretched up to kiss him before settling down again. “I had an idea—about the wedding. Wouldn’t it be lovely if they could have it at Tintagel, when we travel there? As long as you would not mind.”

“I wouldn’t mind. You must ask Margaret about it.”

“I shall, on the morrow.” She fell silent briefly and then added, “Lady Gundrea paid me a compliment today.”

“Oh, yes?”

Gwen nodded, and he could hear her smile when she said, “I think she approves of me, despite everything. It gives me hope that perhaps I will not be a terrible failure as queen after all.”

He hugged her closer. “You could never be that. Never.”

“You are sweet. But ruling—making decisions and meeting out judgments—does not come naturally to me. Not like it does for you.”

He shifted so that he could meet her eyes. “And how many times have I faltered? How many times would I have been lost, but for you? I will help you, just as you help me.”

She cupped his face, smiling, and he caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. 

His stomach growled a moment later, and he blushed while Gwen laughed. Sheepish, he rolled out of bed, saying, “I think I will see if there are any of those sugared dates left. I thought I saw Merlin bring some up, earlier.”

“You’ll get the sheets all sticky,” Gwen protested when he clambered back in, bowl in hand.

“I shall mind the pips. Anyway, there are hardly any left—Merlin must have been nibbling on them, the greedy sod.” 

Gwen lay back on the pillows. “That was another thing Gundrea said to me.” 

Arthur frowned, confused. “About Merlin and dates?” 

“No, about—” Gwen hesitated, and then plunged on. “She asked me if I knew that my husband did not confine himself to my favors but sought out others as well.” She drew in a breath. “I think she thought it a kindness to tell me.”

Surely Gundrea had meant well, but—“It is no business of hers! And how did she ever find out?”

“It is not hard to see. Despite—or perhaps because of—the way you tease each other.”

He tossed the empty bowl to the foot of the bed. “You always knew how things stood between Merlin and me.” 

Gwen didn’t reply, and he found he could not look at her. 

“I could…” He tried to say “stop,” but could not make the word leave his mouth. He could not bear contemplating the thought of losing Merlin. Throat tight, he stared down at the blankets.

“I will not make the both of you miserable.” Gwen sighed. “As I said on the day you told me about what had passed between you, and I knew that I could never keep apart two who were meant to cleave as one. But now that I am queen, it…strikes harder somehow. When Merlin calls me ‘milady,’ and there is a distance between us that wasn’t there before. When people whisper and speculate.”

“I am sorry. Sorry that marrying me has been so hard for you. I did not mean it to be so.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Gwen murmured and tugged him down to lie with her again. 

“I love you and Merlin both,” he whispered, “and would not see either of you unhappy. Not if there was anything I could do to prevent it.”

“I know.” She smoothed her hand over his hair and took a deep breath. “But if you can love two, then you must not begrudge me the same!” Her voice caught, and she wiped away a tear. “I should like to talk about—about Lancelot at times. With you. He was your knight, after all.”

“Lancelot—” He had to stop and gather himself, trying to move past the ache of Gwen’s betrayal, the crushing knowledge that yet again, someone he loved had left him, that yet again, he had not been good enough to earn their love. “I do not ask that you forget him.”

“Thank you. And I do not ask that you forsake Merlin.” She smiled a little past the tears that still lingered in her eyes. “Indeed, I think it would be impossible to take him from your side.”

“He is—” He swallowed, thinking of Merlin’s laugh and his deep, abiding loyalty. “He is a complete nuisance. Always underfoot.”

Gwen’s smile deepened, but she sounded wistful when she spoke. “You share so much with him.”

He could not refute the truth. And he had no wish to change it. “I am sorry.”

“No. I am glad that you have each other. Even if I cannot help but envy it at times.”

He took her hand. “You know that I love you, too. Very much. So very much, Guinevere.”

“I know. And I will try not to mind the gossip of the court. It is only that I am new at being a queen.” She smiled and then curled into him, closing her eyes. “We must try to be at peace with these things.” 

Peace. He wished for it. But how could he find peace when every step he took in the castle brought him memories of Agravaine, Morgana, or his father? How to find it when Morgana’s hatred lapped like a dark water on the shores of his kingdom, threatening to engulf them? How could peace come to him when he had been the reason for his mother’s death, when the assassin sent to kill _him_ had ended his father’s life? When now he must seek to kill his own sister? 

He lay, restless, as Guinevere’s breaths softened into sleep.

[](http://s1181.photobucket.com/user/riventhorn/media/Merlin/riROYALS_zps24702635.jpg.html)


	2. Among the Mountains by the Summer Sea

Moving the royal household always entailed a great deal of fuss and bother. Arthur, resigned to the fact that it would be a fortnight at least before they could depart for Tintagel, left the preparations in his steward’s hands and contented himself with only the occasional complaint. 

“I don’t think that we need to bring quite so many servants with us,” he said one afternoon before supper, when Walter had come to see him in his chambers. 

“I have, of course, received regular reports from the steward at Tintagel, a man named,” Walter consulted a sheaf of vellum, “Oswin. He has sent them once a month since the death of your uncle. But I cannot help but doubt him, sire. Who knows what sort of household he runs? Surely he must have known of your uncle’s perfidy! You shall doubtless find the servants a ragged lot with no notion of how to attend royalty.”

“We cannot blame Oswin for another’s treachery,” Arthur replied. “And I am sure the servants will know their business.” He waved away another protest. “No, I will take only those who I deem necessary. Merlin, of course, shall accompany me as always. And Samer shall look after the falcons—that is one area at least where I will not trust another man to do the job. Cearl, my chancellor, will come along, and Osbert as well, with whatever men from the kitchen whose help he desires.”

“And the squires, my lord?”

“Yes, of course, the squires. That goes without saying. I suppose my groom had best come, too, or Swefred may become fractious in a strange stable amid strange men. The Lady Margaret and the Lady Ema will accompany the queen.”

“The matter of the wedding, sire, does cause me concern.” Walter tapped the nib of his quill against his chin, frowning. “We have written to this Oswin to make all suitable preparations, but I cannot imagine that he will do so. The minstrels, in particular, can be most troublesome. He may simply pluck a likely band from the village square, and the happy occasion will be ruined by their coarse tunings and songs.”

“Would it set your mind at rest if we brought along our own, then?”

Walter sighed. “Since I will not be on hand, sire, I think it best. Sperling will insist on following her majesty, of course, but a few others, who are well versed in courtly ballads and dances, would not go amiss.”

“Very well, you will see to it, then. And try to do so before midsummer is upon us!” 

Arthur dismissed him and clattered down the steps and along the corridors to Gaius’s chamber. He knocked and stuck his head round the door. Gaius and Merlin were bent over a pot on a brazier, muttering to each other, but they drew apart as Arthur entered. 

“Your highness,” Gaius said, bowing. “You are not feeling ill, I trust?”

“Nothing so dire as that. I only came to inquire whether you would be traveling with us to Tintagel. I’ve just been trying to whittle Walter down to a reasonable number for the party, and I should like you to be among them.”

“Thank you, sire, but I prefer to stay here, if you will allow it. Riding a horse over the countryside is hard on old bones such as mine.”

Arthur nodded. “I understand, Gaius, but I do not like to go without a physician.”

“You will not, sire.” Gaius put his hand on Merlin’s arm. “Merlin will be able to treat any sicknesses or injuries that may arise.”

“Gaius,” Merlin began, sounding uncomfortable, “I do not have your knowledge or skill. I could not—”

“Nonsense. Although I have sometimes despaired of you, all these years as my assistant have taught you how to tend wounds and soothe fevers.”

“Though the last time Merlin tested his skills, he and Guinevere were practically devoured by a demon,” Arthur added dryly. 

Merlin scowled. “That was hardly my fault!” 

He raised his eyebrows. “Just make sure that you bring along the necessary supplies. I won’t turn the entire expedition back to Camelot just because you forgot a bundle of herbs.”

Merlin gave him a wounded look. “I shouldn’t.” 

“I’ve learned never to assume anything when it comes to you. Now come along, it’s almost time for supper.” He ushered Merlin towards the door. “And never fear, Gaius, I shall keep him away from the rich sauces.”

“I trust you to look after him, sire,” Gaius replied. “In this and all things.”

Gaius’s words echoed in his mind as he walked down the corridor, Merlin at his side. Looking after Merlin—it was not the easiest task, not when Merlin insisted on following him into every danger. But it was also a task that he would never want to relinquish. 

Merlin felt his gaze and looked over at him. “I am _not_ going to forget anything,” he said, mistaking the reason for Arthur’s attention. 

Arthur snaked a hand behind his back and managed to ruffle Merlin’s hair before he could duck away. It stuck up in all directions, like a hedgepig. 

“ _You_ ,” Merlin muttered, attempting to flatten it again.

Meals were not quite as lavish now that their guests had departed. Rocelin and Hanry had left five days ago, and Ector and Gundrea two days after that. Rocelin had promised to return for the tourney at midsummer, and Gundrea had smiled at Guinevere and told her to come to Blandford for a visit. Indeed, apart from the quarrel between Hanry and Gwaine, all had gone well. If only he could overcome every difficulty so easily. After a few pleasant days of sunshine and warmer temperatures, an apparently ceaseless drizzle had set in. Too much rain and they’d have to worry about the seedlings drowning in the fields. And Ector’s words with him on the subject of Morgana lingered in his mind.

Would Morgana come home if he lifted the ban on magic? Would she stop hating him?

He looked down unseeingly at his food, for once not tasting the play of spices on his tongue. If he were honest with himself, he could not imagine sitting at the same table as Morgana ever again. Uther’s death would always lie between them. Her betrayal of Camelot, of those who loved her, would always sour their words. 

She thought herself so powerful now, so superior to common men. He could scarce recognize the woman who had once pleaded with him to rescue her maidservant when almost everyone else had given Gwen up for lost. 

Had she changed because of the magic or because of her hatred for their father? Or could the two not be separated? He knew now that the dreams that had tormented her must have been caused by the magic. How terrified she must have been! And Morgause had taken advantage of that terror, twisting Morgana until she fell to murdering innocents. 

_I murdered innocents_. The blood of the druids he had killed in his father’s name would always shame him. But he had atoned for that sin; he felt grieved at his actions. He could find no evidence that Morgana regretted anything that she had done. And he knew that if the chance presented itself, she would kill him without a second’s hesitation. 

All those months he had searched for her. How glad he had been to find her alive! And then to discover that she had betrayed him, to then have her send his uncle to him, making him think that he still had family who cared for him—the anger and grief choked him, and he could scarcely catch his breath for a moment. 

“Sire?” Merlin asked, lightly touching his arm. “Are you well?”

“I am not hungry, that is all,” he managed to say, pushing aside his food and rising. “You may go. I shall not require your services this afternoon.”

Merlin looked worried but did not press the issue, watching as Arthur strode from the hall, leaving the clamor of cutlery and conversation behind.

The stone of the tomb in the vaults beneath the castle pressed chill against his hand. The woman carved into it stared upwards, serene and removed, as always.

Although the tomb held the mortal remains of Ygraine Pendragon, he had never been able to feel close to her here. He had always imagined his mother as a woman of warmth and gentleness. No other disposition could have thawed Uther’s heart, drawing him like a man is drawn to the hearthside on a winter night. But her tomb was cold and ever silent.

Still, he came here at times, seeking the comfort that he liked to think her love would have given him. 

He knelt next to her, leaning against the stone. To their left, his father’s tomb now stood, hemming him in. But it was to Ygraine that he spoke.

“I’m going to Tintagel, mother. It has long been in my heart that I should like to see it. To stand where you stood, looking out at the sea.”

The torch on the wall guttered in a draught of air, and he shivered, hunching his shoulders. “Was Agravaine always like that?” he asked softly. “Or did he love you, truly? Was it—was it only me that he hated?” 

The dank silence ate his words as soon as he spoke them. He pressed closer against the tomb. “I was so…unsure. And he took advantage of that, pretending to bring me succor and friendship. I trusted him. I was of his blood, he was your _brother_ , and then…”

A mother would not mind it, he thought, to see her son cry.

They set off from Camelot on a rainy morning, the leaves still newborn upon the branches, a delicate green against the grey sky.

Leon and Gwaine led the party, alert for trouble on the road. Arthur rode behind them, and Merlin stuck close to his side, wrapped in sodden wool and grumbling about the weather. Then came assorted servants and knights, along with some bowmen, hired for the journey. Guinevere and her ladies rode in the center, and Percival kept riding over to check on Margaret and offer to fetch things from the baggage carts. Several dogs dashed alongside, barking and chasing the occasional squirrel, unwisely abroad from home. 

They churned the road into mud as they passed, and the carts kept getting stuck, but Arthur ordered them to press forward. It couldn’t rain forever, but he wasn’t going to sit in his chambers, brooding over the troubles that beset him until it stopped, either. 

“We’ll be lucky to make Tintagel in a week at this pace, sire,” Leon said, dropping back for a moment. He wiped the rain from his face, glancing back at his sister. 

“Percival is keeping her well attended,” Arthur told him. 

“Yes, she seems to have him in hand.” Leon chuckled. “She looks so small next to him, but he never fails to hasten to do her bidding.”

“Your father is at ease with the match?”

“Yes. Although your gift of an estate helped. Have you given more thought as to where it shall be?”

“Some. Have she or Percival voiced any preferences to you?”

“No, I think they are too much in love to think about practical things like that.” Leon smiled and then continued, “I had meant to ask you, sire, if in your talk with Lord Ector and Lady Gundrea, their daughter Hilde was ever mentioned?”

Arthur glanced at him. “She is married and has two babes.” 

“Ah.” Leon stared off into the woods a moment before nodding his head quickly. “That is good. I am glad to hear it. And now I had best return to my post at the front, sire.” 

“What was that about?” Merlin asked as Leon rode ahead. 

“Leon wore Hilde’s token about his arm during his first joust.” 

“But then…?”

He shrugged. “I never asked him what in particular changed their hearts. Perhaps it was nothing more than the passage of time and fading of a youthful affection.” 

Merlin digested this silently, tugging his hood a little farther over his head to try and keep off the rain, which was beginning to fall harder. “It will be odd not to have Percival with us when we return to Camelot,” he said at last.

“It will not be forever. He will return to court when I summon him. Most knights are often away from their manors, you know.”

“You’ll give them a month or two, though, before then, won’t you?”

“Yes, Merlin. I’m not heartless.” He gave Merlin a thwack on the arm. “I’ll give them time enough to enjoy their marriage bed.” 

“Ow.” Merlin made a show of rubbing his arm before leaning a little closer. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I think Gwaine has gotten Branwen, the tavern keeper’s daughter, with child.”

Arthur groaned. “Hound’s Teeth!”

“I’m only surprised it didn’t happen sooner, to be honest.” Merlin grinned. “He’s been spending almost every night in her bed since the last heavy snow.” 

“I trust he plans to take care of them?”

“Of course! Although as I say, it’s only a guess of mine—I think he’s waiting until she’s further along before saying anything. Just in case it comes to naught.”

“Hmmm, well, I’ll wager a skin of my best wine it will be a daughter.”

“And _I_ say it shall be a son.”

“Oh, yes? And what will you wager on it, then?”

“I’ll polish your armor for a whole week without complaining about it?” Merlin tried.

“You’re supposed to do that already. But if it is the only way to procure your obedience…”

“It is, my lord,” Merlin said gravely and then broke into another grin and danced his horse out of reach before Arthur could thwack him again.

They had sent word of their coming ahead, and so the village of Amesbury was expecting them when they at last arrived late in the day. The rain had let up an hour past, and the air was chilly with a fog drifting slowly out of the hollows. In the west, a pale band of sky showed a break in the clouds, but the rising fog and setting sun soon shuttered the light.

A wool merchant, owner of the finest house for several miles about, was to shelter them that evening, and his servants met them as they rode into the village, holding up torches to clear away the dusk and fog. The rest of the village seemed to have turned up as well, eager for a chance to see their king and queen, and there were many shouts of greeting and people milling about. Arthur said a few appropriate words of thanks and blessing before sliding off his horse and going into the house, eager to dry out in front of a warm fire and have something hot to drink. 

Most of the party had to shift for themselves in the village, with the lowest servants ending up in stables while the knights managed to find clean beds and hot food. Besides Gwen and himself, only Margaret and Ema dined with the merchant and his family. The merchant spent most of the meal stuttering out his hopes that all was pleasing to his majesty. Arthur dealt with it as patiently as he could and tried not to grimace at the stringy mutton. He retired as soon as was polite, Gwen coming with him. The merchant and his wife had surrendered their own bedroom for them, and soon he was ensconced in the blankets, Gwen curled against his side. The candlelight wavered against the rafters, and the sound of a dog barking filtered up from the yard. 

Gwen combed her hair out, laying it across her shoulders in the hopes of getting it to dry. “I pray it does not rain on us tomorrow.”

He helped her fan out the damp curls. “I should have waited and not made you travel in this weather.”

“I’m fine, Arthur,” she said, catching his hands and holding them. “I can handle a little rain. And if we’d waited, we might not have been able to cross that ford. The river will rise, if the rains keep up.”

Merlin appeared at that juncture, holding two bowls carefully in his hands. “I’ve made each of you a posset to guard against the damp. Milk boiled with ale, as the wine was no good, and I’m afraid the mistress of the house had no candied anise in her stores, but there is ginger and sugar.”

Gwen peered into the bowl, grimacing. “Thank you, Merlin, but you know I’m not fond of these. I don’t think I need—”

“I’m not going to let you catch cold,” Merlin interrupted, taking another blanket from a chest and laying it across their knees. “Gaius entrusted me with the health of the expedition.”

Arthur drank some of the sweet, warming mixture. “You’d best do as he says, Guinevere. Or he’ll report us to Gaius upon our return.”

Merlin looked up from putting Arthur’s shoes nearer the fire to dry. “Don’t make fun. I know what I am about.”

“At least you refrained from burning the milk this time.” Arthur pointed to the cabinet against the wall. “What is that book, there?”

“The, uh, _The Mabinogion_ ,” Merlin said, peering at it in the dim light.

“Read some of it, won’t you? I do not desire sleep just yet.”

So Merlin took down the book and, stretching out on the pallet that had been laid for him before the hearth, began to read while Gwen drank the posset and made faces. 

“Math the son of Mathonwy was lord over Gwynedd, and Pryderi, the son of Pwyll was lord over the one-and-twenty Cantrevs of the South,” Merlin began. “At that time, Math the son of Mathonwy could not exist unless his feet were in the lap of a maiden, except only when he was prevented by the tumult of war. Now the maiden who was with him was Goewin, the daughter of Pebin, in Arvon, and she was the fairest maiden of her time who was known there.”

Merlin read slowly, sometimes pausing to puzzle over a word. Arthur’s feet, which had been cold all day, began to grow warmer under the comforting weight of the blankets. Midway through the tale, Gwen dozed off, but he stayed awake, listening to Merlin’s voice and the logs in the hearth, which cackled together as though over a jest comprehensible only to flames and the usually somber ash. 

He felt lighter here, away from the castle. In this room, no painful memories lay in wait for him. He did not expect to hear his father’s voice outside the door or catch Morgana at the window, combing her hair. The furniture, the very shape of the walls, were strangers to him, Merlin and Gwen his sole companions. 

A touch on his arm startled him, rousing him from his thoughts. He looked up to find Merlin standing there, smiling. 

“You should get some rest,” Merlin said. “Morning will be here soon enough, and another day of plodding along through mud and downpours.”

“Don’t be so gloomy, Merlin,” Arthur chided, shaking his pillow into shape. “You’re like a little rain cloud yourself. Who knows, it may be sunny.”

Merlin gave him a look as though to say, _Do you know nothing of the weathers of the world?_ , and went to blow out the candle. 

Indeed, when they woke the next day, it was to grey skies and the dreary patter of raindrops. But if he must get rained on, Arthur far preferred getting rained on here than back in Camelot. Being out in the open air, smelling the earth and knowing it for his own soil and his own land—it stirred a deep love in him, a love that had been there even before he could put a name to it, from the first time his father had carried him out onto the battlements and let the airs and the sunshine of Camelot touch him and know their prince. 

Since that moment, every sinew of his being had strove to protect and guide her. And yet, he could not help but give his love to things other than the land as well. It pained him, that those loves had so often placed his kingdom in jeopardy. Agravaine, Morgana—even Guinevere and Merlin, who caused him to overturn every revered tradition—perhaps even his father, for would it not have been better for the strength of Camelot to assume the throne while Uther had been ill rather than leave all uncertain, the outcome of each day unknown? 

How was it possible, to love and have those affections turned against the very thing that he cherished above all else? 

And if he truly wanted to serve and guard Camelot, should he not shield his heart from these treacherous emotions? For, to his shame, he seemed incapable of divining truth from falsehood, incapable of being wise and steadfast. Instead, like a foolish boy, he welcomed into his affections any that showed him the least regard. Any who professed to love him.

“Arthur,” Gwen said softly, urging her horse to keep pace with his own, “what troubles you?”

“Nothing.” He tried a smile. “Only this damnable rain.”

“Is it Tintagel?” Gwen continued, always able to tell when he was lying. “We do not have to go there, if it is too painful. There are other places that—”

“I _want_ to go there. I do. I want to see where my mother walked and slept in all the years of her youth.”

Gwen nodded, sympathy filling her eyes. “Only, if it is too hard for you, tell me, so that I may help.”

“I will,” he promised. “Though I suspect preparations for the wedding will leave none of us much time for idle thought,” he added, turning to a lighter subject.

On the fourth day, they came to a turning in the road. The main track led straight on to Tintagel, but a fainter path wound its way up into the hills rising to the south.

“I think I should like to follow this and see some more of the countryside,” Arthur decided. 

The entire party—or those close enough to hear, at any rate—drooped dejectedly. Guinevere sighed and looked ruefully at the soaked, muddy hem of her dress. Leon opened his mouth and then shut it firmly, grimacing. Merlin glared mutinously from under his hood and muttered, “Do you wish to drown us all in this infernal rain?”

“Of course not,” Arthur retorted. “I will only take you—and Gwaine, I think—with me. The rest can continue on to Tintagel by the main road.”

“But, sire,” Leon said over Merlin’s disgusted snort, “you cannot ride through strange country unprotected. Gwaine will hardly be enough to protect you if you are set upon by brigands.”

“I can wield a sword, too, in case you had forgotten. Besides, we have encountered no trouble.” Arthur silenced Leon’s protest. “I wish to see what things are like off the highway—in the small cotholds and villages perched among the hills.”

“Very well, my lord,” Leon said with a sigh and went off to inform Gwaine of his new duty. 

“Don’t take too long,” Gwen told him, “and try not to find any mischief. The three of you seem to make a habit of that.”

“It is hardly my fault that Gwaine and Merlin are too fond of the inside of a tavern.” Arthur leaned over to give her a kiss. “Give my greetings to steward Oswin and let him know that I shall be arriving shortly. We will only be a day or two behind you, I should imagine.”

“Make sure he finds you someplace warm and dry to sleep tonight,” Gwen said to Merlin. “I don’t want to hear that you spent the night under a beech tree in the forest.”

“I’ll do my best to herd him into a village,” Merlin promised, as though Arthur was not sitting right there, listening to them. Herding! What was he, a sheep?

“What is this I hear about another night on the road in this miserable damp?” Gwaine asked, riding up. 

“Arthur has it in his head to go the long way round,” Merlin told him, “and you and I have to make sure he doesn’t get into trouble.”

“I will not get into trouble,” Arthur announced loudly. “And I will not make people sleep under the shrubbery. By my life, I could swear I am taking a pair of old crones with me, always mumbling and grumbling.”

Gwaine tossed Merlin a coin. “That says he only lasts an hour before yelling at us and ordering us to shut up.”

“I am the _king_ ,” Arthur said, perhaps a bit petulantly.

“Yes, dear heart,” Gwen soothed, patting his arm. Merlin and Gwaine tried to hide their grins.

Arthur gave them all as stern a glare as he could muster and salvaged what was left of his dignity, turning his horse and setting him on the little path that led off into the green and misty hills.

For several miles they did not encounter a soul save birds flitting among the bracken. As a mercy, the rain subsided into a sporadic drizzle, and a light patch in the sky suggested that the sun was trying to break free of the clouds. With the rattle of the carts and the chatter of the servants (particularly Sperling, who was apt to break into song every time they passed a fair prospect) behind them, he could attend to the sounds of the countryside. A wren twittered in the branch of an ash tree. A brook, hastening down a rock-lined gully, burbled and rushed, almost a torrent thanks to all the rain. Beneath him, Swefred tossed his head and snorted softly, the breath rising from his nose in the chill air. Arthur patted his neck, silently promising an extra bit of fodder in his nosebag that evening.

“I see smoke over that hill,” Merlin announced, pointing. 

Arthur squinted. “Yes, I think you’re right. A village, perhaps.”

“Aye, I can see a few fields down yonder,” Gwaine added. “Mayhap this will be a good place to spend the night.”

“We’ve a good three hours of light left,” Arthur protested. “But I shall consider it,” he amended, as Merlin shivered and looked soulfully at him from within his damp cloak. 

His heart sank as they rode by the fields. The grain was only just struggling out of the sucking mud, and water stood in wide puddles, inches deep in places. He wondered if the villagers had at least been able to make a good harvest last year. Up here in the hills, they must have been out of reach of Morgana’s army. 

Cresting the hill top, though, they looked down upon a cluster of dwellings that appeared none too prosperous. The thatch needed to be repaired on many houses. A few thin cows stood in a sodden huddle, and some scraggly chickens pecked along the common. 

A boy, struggling with a heavy bucket of water at the well, was the first to become aware of them. He gave a shout and dropped his bucket, pelting back to the safety of the houses. Others, out about their tasks, took heed. As they rode down the steep hillside, horses carefully picking their way among the stones, four men advanced towards them. One clutched a hammer; another had a dagger at his belt, although he did not draw it. 

“Well met, my lords,” one of them said, his eyes flicking warily over Arthur and Gwaine and the swords at their sides. “Have you by chance lost your way? The fogs and mists can trick a man off the road.”

“No, I meant to come by this approach,” Arthur replied, dismounting. “I am King Arthur Pendragon. This is my knight, Gwaine, and my servant, Merlin.”

The men gaped and then dropped into hasty bows. “Sire!” exclaimed the one who had spoken first. “We—we never thought to have such an honor bestowed on our poor village.”

“Rise,” Arthur said, “and tell me your name, and the names of your companions.”

“I am Radulfus, and I speak for the village in most matters, and take our disagreements to the sheriff once a year.” A quiet pride infused his words. “This is Jerome, our smith, and Euan and Ivo.” 

“And do you pay your rents to the steward at Tintagel?”

“We do, milord.” Radulfus hesitated, seeming to want to say more, but it was Euan who spoke: “Long have we hoped that the son of Ygraine Du Bois might return to us.” He flushed and lowered his head.

“I have never left you,” Arthur said. “Not in thought, at any rate. But I should have come in person before this, to see that all was well.” 

“May we tend to your horses, sire?” Ivo asked. “And offer you a warm bed and meal for the night? It will not be much, of course, but—”

“He has slept on the floor when the need arises,” Merlin said. “He did so when he came to help save my own village from outlaws.”

“If you’ve a cup of ale to ease our throats and a warm fire to dry our shoes, we’ll be in your debt,” Gwaine added. 

“You come in good time, then, sir knight,” Euan said, “for my wife Matillis has just brewed a fine batch.”

“That’s more like it, my good man! Show me the way, and we shall have a cup together.”

“You will stay the night at my home, your majesty?” Radulfus asked as Gwaine and Euan moved down the street. 

“It should please me, yes. Though I will not hear of your wife and you being turned from your bed—”

“It is no trouble, sire,” Radulfus protested, sounding appalled at the very idea of letting his king sleep upon the floor. 

“Very well, then. Merlin, see to it the horses are stabled,” he ordered and then followed Radulfus towards one of the larger houses in the village. A woman and two girls lingered around the doorway—indeed, most of the villagers were gathered in small clumps about the common, whispering and gawking. 

“My wife, Ceolwen,” Radulfus said, indicating the woman, whose dark hair showed threads of grey. “And my daughters, Mildrede and Tola. My son, Eahlred, is out with the sheep.”

Ceolwen stammered through a greeting, prodding her daughters into a courtesy. “Do be seated by the fire, my lord. And I shall take your cloak and lay it to dry.” 

“Thank you.” Arthur smiled at Mildrede and Tola, who were both staring at him, eyes wide. “Have you never seen a knight before?”

They shook their heads mutely.

“I trust you will look after my sword.” He unbuckled Excalibur and gravely handed it to them.

“We shall, sire,” Mildrede whispered, carefully touching the fine embroidery on the scabbard. 

Radulfus led him to a seat by the fire, which was in the middle of the room. A ladder against the wall suggested a sleeping loft above them. Merlin appeared just as Radulfus was handing him a cup of ale—flavored with herbs to hide the sourness, by the smell of it. 

“Look at you, soaked through to the bone,” Ceolwen tutted upon seeing Merlin. “Off with that tunic—my husband has a spare one that you can wear until that dries.”

Merlin obeyed, huddling close to the fire until she brought him the tunic. Then he settled next to Arthur, stretching out his legs. 

An uncomfortable silence fell. Ceolwen was busy in a corner, but Tola and Mildrede stood a ways off, still staring, while Radulfus hovered to one side, uncertain.

“Sit, please,” Arthur told him. “And speak to me of your village. You fare well? Or poorly?”

“Well enough, sire,” Radulfus replied, taking a cautious seat. “A hard winter, but that is behind us now.”

“And yet the spring planting does not grow as it should.”

“It is true. The winter stayed late and now the rains…” Radulfus trailed off. “But we have seen it before. We shall not fail in our rents to Tintagel,” he added.

“I did not think that you would. Only,” Arthur hesitated. “Only I know it will be a hardship,” he finished awkwardly, wishing that he could forgive them the duty. But if he did that, then how could he justify not doing the same for every poor soul in the kingdom? And then there would be no revenue, no funds to feed knights or horses, no money to rebuild the blackened ruins of the city where the flames set by Morgana had run rampant. 

A clatter of footsteps announced Eahlred, rushing inside to see if it were indeed true, and that a king lodged in his father’s house that night. He stumbled to a halt, a gangly lad of nine or thereabouts. Arthur greeted him, and a little squeak came out of his mouth in reply.

Merlin beckoned the children closer. “Come sit here on the floor, you three, and I’ll tell you a tale. About a fearsome dragon and a prince.”

He told the story of when the Great Dragon had attacked Camelot, although he made it into a lighter tale than Arthur remembered it. The children drank in every word, sitting with Arthur’s sword across their laps, each touching it as though reminding themselves it was real. Radulfus and Ceolwen listened just as close, and Ceolwen even gasped aloud when Merlin got to the moment when Arthur had called for his knights to join him and ride out to face the dragon. 

“Is it really true?” Tola asked when Merlin had finished. 

Arthur pulled down the sleeve of his tunic and showed them the scars from the dragon’s claws on his shoulder. “Real enough to leave this mark upon me.”

“To be sure, I’ve never heard the like!” Ceolwen exclaimed and then, coming back to her duties as hostess, chivvied the children into helping lay the table with a threadbare cloth. Radulfus set a single silver spoon, darkened with age, by Arthur’s place. 

“I don’t recall you playing such a grand role,” Arthur said to Merlin in an undertone as they moved to the table. “What was all that about the servant who gave such a pretty speech that the Last Dragonlord’s stern heart was moved to pity?”

“Just remember, sire, that I could have told them about the time with the goblin, when you ended up with a donkey’s ears,” Merlin replied serenely. 

They ate a pottage, full of bacon and peas, and dark rye bread. Coarser fare than Arthur was used to, but good nonetheless after a long, wet ride. He looked at the faces around him as he ate and remembered a day when he had stood before his father and told Uther that he was as much a servant of the people as they were of him. It was no less true now, and yet sometimes he felt powerless to do his duty to them. He could imagine Tola’s face, pinched with hunger and cold come next winter when the harvest had failed. And what could he possibly do about it?

“Are you well?” Merlin asked him when the supper was over, and they were once more sitting by the fire while the family saw to the last chores of the day. “You seemed quiet.”

“Only compared to your usual chatter.” He shrugged. “I was only…wishing that I could help them more. Like a king ought.”

Merlin touched his shoulder. “You mean the crops? You think they will fail.”

“Yes.” He dug a stick into the coals, stirring up the sparks. 

“Perhaps—” Merlin hesitated. “Perhaps there is a way to save them.”

“How? Do you control the weather?”

Merlin shook his head.

“And nor do I. There is nothing _to_ be done and therefore no point to this.” He stood up, brushing off his tunic. “I am to bed. I suppose Gwaine has drunk himself into a stupor. Hopefully not into some girl’s arms as well.”

“I will go check,” Merlin said, jumping up and hurrying to the door. 

“You won’t convince him to leave— _Mer_ lin,” he said, irritated, for Merlin had slipped out into the night while he was in mid-sentence. 

And though he lied awake, waiting, Merlin did not return. Which meant that he had found Gwaine and together they had decided to locate the bottom of an ale pitcher. Arthur scowled and shifted under the scratchy blankets. He had wanted Merlin with _him_. He had wanted to kiss that spot on Merlin’s neck that always made him so quiet and pliant. He had wanted to feel Merlin’s calloused palm around his length, tugging gently until he spilled, while Merlin muffled a groan against his chest. 

Flopping onto his side and trying to ignore the lumpy mattress, he resolved to send Gwaine on a patrol—a very long and tedious patrol—to the eastern borders when they returned to Camelot.

He slept poorly, troubled by odd dreams and the strange feeling of being alone in a bed. He had gotten used to always having either Gwen or Merlin with him.

Feeling his way down the ladder in the morning, he found Mildrede stirring up the fire, the rest of the family out looking after the stock. When he opened the door, a shaft of pale light streamed in, and he realized that the sun was cresting the ridgeline. Nary a raindrop or even a cloud to be seen. Already feeling more cheerful at the prospect of a fine day, he stepped outside and practically tripped over Merlin, who was sitting by the threshold, huddled in a blanket and fast asleep.

Arthur nudged him with his foot. “Merlin.”

No response.

“ _Merlin_.” 

Slowly, Merlin opened his eyes, squinting against the light. “What?” he demanded, coughing a little. He looked very pale, with dark circles under his eyes. How much had he and Gwaine drunk to get him in this state?

“Why are you sleeping in the dirt?”

Merlin yawned and slumped back against the wall of the house. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

Arthur raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

“All right, I didn’t think I could manage that ladder in the dark,” Merlin admitted.

“That’s what you get for sampling the local ale with Gwaine.” Arthur held out a hand. “Come on, up you get. It’s a lovely day, and I want to be on the road soon.”

Merlin rose wearily and leaned on Arthur for a moment, as though his legs were too weak to hold him. But he smiled. “The sun is out.”

“Yes, I can see that.” He studied Merlin’s pale face. “Are you ill? You don’t look well at all.”

Merlin shrugged. “Gwaine. Ale.”

“Where is Gwaine, anyway?” Arthur looked about as though Gwaine might pop out of a doorway and save him the trouble of rounding him up and sticking his head in a rain barrel to sober him. 

Merlin yawned again, apparently too tired to carry on a conversation. 

Sighing, Arthur directed him into the house. “You go and eat something. I’m going to roust out Gwaine. And the two of you had best be ready to ride within the hour!”

Gwaine was discovered tumbling out of a hayloft, trying to brush bits of straw out of his hair and looking far too pleased with himself.

“I can report, sire, that the ale and the women of this village are without compare!” he exclaimed, clapping Arthur on the shoulder.

“You should know better than to let Merlin drink that much,” Arthur scolded. “He can barely walk, let alone do his duties.”

“Merlin was there?” Gwaine blinked and then laughed. “Must have had more to drink than I thought.”

Rolling his eyes, he gave Gwaine a shove in the direction of Radulfus’s farmstead. “How the two of you managed to find your way through the Perilous Lands, I will never comprehend.” 

By the time their horses were saddled and Ceolwen had given them some bread to have on the way, the entire village had turned out to see them off. 

“You have given our humble abode the highest honor, sire,” Radulfus said, bowing. “Our village has little, but you may trust that we are your men, milord, to our last breath.”

Arthur, seated once more upon Swefred, inclined his head. “You have shared your homes and your food with us, and I shall not forget it. If ever you need Camelot’s aid, you have only to ask.”

They walked their horses slowly through the village and back onto the grassy track leading through the hills. Merlin still looked weak and shaky, clinging to his horse’s mane, and Arthur was of half a mind to make Merlin ride with him so he could put a steadying arm around his chest. As they rode over the crest of the ridge, though, all thoughts fled his mind, and he reined in Swefred, staring. 

Below lay many of the village’s fields, clustered in a level meadow leading down to a stream. Yesterday, the plants had been barely peeking above the ground, straggly and thin. But now…he could swear they had grown at least two inches overnight! The fields flushed with green, promising a bountiful harvest where but a day ago they had seemed to herald a famine.

“How—how is this possible?” he said aloud, rubbing a hand across his eyes in case he chanced to be in a waking dream. 

“A little sun can do wonders,” Merlin said, sounding satisfied. 

“A little sun cannot do _this_. This is…miraculous.”

Merlin looked at him and smiled. A soft and private smile, that Arthur had sometimes surprised upon his face when they had lain together, and he had fallen asleep in Merlin’s arms, waking to find Merlin holding him and looking upon him in just such a way. “Perhaps the land knew the king’s distress for his people,” Merlin said quietly, “and the clouds drew away and the life burgeoned in the soil.”

“Don’t be silly,” Arthur replied, although a little part of him wondered—could it be so? Could he have wished this into being? 

“It is a goodly thing, indeed,” Gwaine said, shading his brow to look down on the fields, “and I cannot account for it. But I am glad of it.”

“As am I.” Arthur breathed deeply, smelling the scent of earth and new growth. “As am I.”

Every field they rode by that day seemed touched by the same blessing, as though the plants were striving to make up for the past weeks in an hour or two. When they rejoined the main road and began encountering other travelers—a farmwife taking baskets of eggs to the nearest town, a laborer with a bundle of wood strapped to his back, a merchant with a wagonload of wine barrels—everyone seemed full of cheer, doffing caps or curtseying, and hailing the fine day and wishing them good health and good speed.

It seemed well to him to be coming to Tintagel in such a way, and when they caught their first sight of it, just a glimpse of pale stone through the trees, his heartbeat quickened. The sea-smell reached them a moment later and soon the road unraveled onto a grassy headland. To their left, the waves curled around dark rocks at the bottom of steep cliffs, stretching out their foam-tipped fingers to touch dry land before changing their minds and retreating back into the sea. 

Tintagel itself stood on a stone outcrop. The tall castle jutted upwards, smooth and solid, while at its base a cluster of buildings huddled close, lashed by the ceaseless wind. For the wind did blow, tugging at his mantle and chapping his lips. 

But he paid little heed to it, for this was where his mother had lived and where he might yet find a piece of her to hold in his heart—something warmer than stone and untouched by devious webs of magic. 

As they drew nearer to the keep, he spotted a cluster of figures among the rocks. One broke free and ran towards them, her dark hair unbound, lifting her skirts away from the damp grass. 

“Arthur!” Gwen called, and now he could see that her feet were bare as well and covered in mud. “Isn’t this lovely? The sunshine, and we’ve had reports that the fields are flourishing, and the _sea_ , Arthur. We climbed down to the shore, and look, I found these.” She held onto his stirrup, holding up her other hand, which was full of smooth, green stones. 

Laughing, he reached down and helped swing her up into the saddle in front of him. “You’ve only been to the sea the once, haven’t you? And then we were too worried about rescuing Elyan to hunt for pretty things.”

“I know, I’m behaving like a child,” Gwen admitted, blushing. “With my hair loose and my skirts wet—I do not look like a queen, do I?”

“You look like my heart’s queen,” he replied and kissed her.

She gave him an extra little kiss on his cheek and then waved over his shoulder at Merlin and Gwaine. 

“Are things well here, then?” he asked as they rode forward.

“Yes,” Gwen replied slowly. “Only—the steward, Oswin, was polite, but he seemed, I don’t know, distant somehow. I think he might be afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“Of what you will think of him given…given all that has happened.”

“I’ve said before, I do not blame others for Agravaine’s treachery.”

“I know that, but Oswin does not.”

“Then I will reassure him.” He hitched Gwen a little closer and looked down at her bare feet. “We’ve left your slippers behind, haven’t we? I suppose I shall have to carry you inside.”

“You will do nothing of the sort,” Gwen retorted and then caught his smile, and laughed.

Oswin proved to be around Arthur’s age, though of heavier build and darker skin. He exuded politeness and decorum, but Arthur, too, sensed a certain reserve in his manner. “I have lodged you in the best chambers, sire,” he said, “and found a place for all your household. If you wish to examine the accounts of the estate, I will place them at your disposal.”

“I do not think that necessary,” Arthur replied, only half his attention on Oswin as he gazed round the hall, trying to imagine where Ygraine might have sat. “My steward was well satisfied with your reports.” 

“Thank you, sire.”

Perhaps she had preferred the corner, there, where the sunlight brightened the old stones. “How long have you been the steward here?” 

“About three years, but my father held the position before me and taught me what he knew.”

Arthur hesitated and then asked quickly, “Then you knew my mother?”

“I did, sire.”

Oswin did not elaborate, and Arthur found he could not ask him to do so. It seemed too private a matter to discuss with a stranger in the open hall. But he could ask Oswin to show him his mother’s old chamber and query as to whether any of her possessions remained. 

“I am afraid there is nothing,” Oswin replied as he led the way up a winding, narrow stair. “The Lord Agravaine,” he hesitated and cleared his throat, “he had many of the family’s possessions sold in order to pay…”

“To pay for an army to take the throne,” Arthur finished grimly. 

Oswin fell silent. He took Arthur to a door and pushed it open. “This was her room, my lord.”

“Thank you. You may go.” 

He waited until Oswin’s footsteps had faded before stepping inside. It was not a large room. It held only a bed and a table and chair—all well made, with handsome carvings, but impersonal. He supposed the room must be used for guest accommodations now. A faded tapestry hung on one wall, depicting a hunting party in the greenwood. He crossed to the one window, but the glass was too thick and foggy to be able to see out. 

He was still standing by the window, staring at nothing, when the tread of footsteps sounded in the corridor. They sounded slow and weary. 

“Gwen said you’d come up here,” Merlin said as he entered. His face was still wan, his shoulders sagging. “I’ve taken your bags to your chambers and seen to it a fire was laid.” He hesitated and then continued, his voice tight with and strained. “There were three other servants there, and they seemed to think that they would be attending you as well, and when I explained that _I_ looked after you, they gave me a funny look, and I think, sire, that you will have to speak to them and…” He trailed off. “Arthur? What is it?”

“This was my mother’s room. Once.” 

Merlin’s expression softened, but Arthur didn’t want that, didn’t want sympathy or pity. So he groused, “You look as though you’re about to keel over. Hounds Teeth, how much ale did you and Gwaine drink?” He ushered Merlin from the room, closing the door behind them. 

“Arthur, you can—” Merlin began, sounding concerned.

“Never _mind_ that,” Arthur interrupted, giving him a push along the hall. “Go and sit down before you fall down. I’m going to inspect the castle’s defenses. And I don’t want you following me. You will do as you are told for once.”

Merlin gave him a troubled look, but hid whatever he would have liked to say behind a sigh and a rote, “Yes, sire.”

After supper, Guinevere, Margaret, and Ema retired to the solar to work on sewing Margaret’s wedding clothes, so he remained in the hall, drawing a chair close to the fire. Merlin—who had a bit more color in his cheeks after a rest and some food—had discovered that one of the squires was limping, his ankle sprained, and took him off to the kitchen to make a hot compress for him. Arthur watched him go, wondering if he should have a talk with Gaius when they returned to Camelot about Merlin’s visits to the tavern. He wasn’t going to have Merlin slouching about his duties like death warmed over every time—

“Sire?”

It was Oswin, hovering just outside the edge of the firelight. 

“Yes?” Arthur turned to look at him. “What is it?”

“Might I speak to you for a moment, sire?”

“Of course.” He gestured for him to come closer. “Draw up a chair and drink some wine with me.”

“I prefer to stand, sire.” Oswin held himself rigidly, his jaw tensed, keeping his eyes fixed on a point above Arthur’s head. “I wish to confess that I—knew of Lord Agravaine’s treachery.”

“I see.” He sat back, suppressing the first flash of fury. 

Oswin swallowed. “I saw the—the witch come here. And I knew he was gathering the money to pay for mercenaries and soldiers.”

“And you said nothing.”

“I did not, sire.” Oswin’s eyes flickered to his for a moment. “But I regret my—my cowardice. I was wrong to remain loyal to such a traitor.”

Arthur watched him steadily, and Oswin looked away again. 

“Why do you choose to tell me this now?” Arthur asked. “You could have remained silent, and I would never have known the truth.”

“I am not a liar, my lord.” Oswin clasped his hands tightly behind his back. “My father…had little that was good to say about the late king. And Lord Agravaine had ever blamed Uther for Ygraine’s death. We all—took you to be your father’s son, my lord. It shames me, now, to think of what the Lady Ygraine would have said of our treachery. But none of us had ever seen you, sire, and the Lord Agravaine—he was so persuasive and—”

“Peace, Oswin,” Arthur said, halting his stammering. “I know very well how persuasive my uncle could be.” He sighed. “And yet here you stand, naming yourself a traitor. I could have you hanged and many would call it justice.”

Oswin closed his eyes and nodded, drawing a shaky breath.

“I am not going to do so, however,” he continued, and Oswin slumped in relief, putting a hand out to a chair to steady himself. “It took courage to come to me like this. But prudence dictates that I reserve the right to dismiss you from your position, should I find in the next few days that your newfound loyalty to me does not run as deeply as you might have me believe.”

“I…understand, sire.” 

“Good. Now have that drink, man, before you faint from nerves.”

Later, when he climbed into bed next to Gwen, he couldn’t help but say, “Why must being my father’s son always be perceived as such a terrible thing? He was a wise and strong man, and I could do worse than to wish to live up to his example.”

Gwen kept her eyes closed. “He loved you very much, Arthur.”

“He loved this kingdom, too, and—and he loved my mother. I believe that.”

Gwen tucked her hand under his arm but remained silent.

“You do not wish to talk about this, do you?” 

She turned onto her back, letting go of him. “No. I find it hard to speak well of Uther.”

They laid in silence for a while. 

“I miss him,” Arthur said at last. “Every day. And I cannot help but wonder if he would think that I am a good king.”

“You _are_ a good king. Of course you are.” She found one of his hands and held it between hers, close against her chest. “I know these last months have been hard, but you mustn’t blame yourself for what Agravaine did—or Morgana.”

“I try not to, but I feel so…uncertain,” he admitted, blessing the darkness that hid his face from Gwen. He could not have said as much in the daylight, looking into her eyes. “I fear I shall make a mistake again and trust the wrong person.”

Gwen drew closer, kissing his temple and letting him press his face against her smooth shoulder as she held him. “A king cannot rule from fear. And you have never done so. Always you try to understand people and offer them justice and compassion. Do not lose that gift, Arthur.”

“It is hard, sometimes,” he whispered against her skin, and she kissed him again. She didn’t try to contradict him, but she held him and conveyed silently that she would not leave him to face the burden alone. 

Still, he lay awake in the dark a long time, long after Gwen had fallen asleep. He thought about his mother and his father, and how both of them had sacrificed their lives for him, and how desperately he hoped to be worthy of that sacrifice.

“I slept in the kitchens last night,” Merlin said, lifting Arthur’s vambrace onto his shoulders. “The _kitchens_ ,” he said again, when Arthur didn’t respond.

“Well where would you rather be?” Arthur asked vaguely, not quite attending. He had been set to meet Elyan in the tilting field a half hour past but had been delayed by the arrival of a missive from Camelot, held with his steward’s seal, which had required a response. Nothing of great import, simply some troubles in the town over a baker who had diluted his bread with stone to make up the required weight and then had managed to escape when the hue and cry went up. Still, it boded ill for the rest of the summer, if people were already worrying about the harvest. If only this good weather might hold and the miracle of Tintagel’s fields be repeated throughout the kingdom.

“How can you ask that?” Merlin demanded, and Arthur turned to find that he had a pinched, hurt look on his face. 

“I only meant,” Arthur floundered, guiltily aware that he had done wrong in some way and trying to determine exactly what had gone awry, “that I, er, that I—”

“You know where I would rather be,” Merlin said, tying on his left gauntlet. “I know—” He paused and then went on, “I know I cannot be in your bed as much now. And in Camelot I have my own bed, so I do not mind as much. But stuck in the kitchens, like a spit boy—”

“They do not know our ways, that is all. You might have said something to the steward.”

“And have him look at me scornfully? You are the only one whose word counts in this matter.”

It was true, and Arthur had forgotten it, caught up in his own sorrows last night. “I will remedy the matter,” he promised, and then could not help adding, “Though I might ask, given that you are so keen to sleep near me, where you were the night before last. You could have stayed the entire night with me. But you preferred to spend it with Gwaine.”

“I didn’t—” Merlin stopped, looking away. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, finally muttering, “I wasn’t with Gwaine.”

“You were not with me, that is all I know.” He continued slowly, “And even if you are with me tonight, in the same chamber, I mean, you know that I will not be bedding you. Not with Guinevere there.” 

“I know that.” Merlin would not look at him, staring at the far wall instead. “And I do not expect it. I only meant that—that it gets lonely, at times.”

“If I spend my nights away from her, people will talk,” he said at last, feeling wretched. 

“Enough of them know that you bed me, too.”

“Yes, but it is different to turn Guinevere out of our chambers and let you into them. It would hurt her standing in the court, which is fragile enough as it is.” 

“And you do not think that she might...stay…while we…?”

“I—” The thought did not appeal to him. He could not quite say why except that he was one person when he was with Merlin and another when he was with Gwen and he could not be both at once. 

“Never mind,” Merlin said, seeing his expression. “I know I am only a servant. And now Gwen is not, and everything has changed.” He picked up a rag and started rubbing at a spare helmet, head down.

Arthur watched him for a moment. “Come here,” he said at last, softly, and Merlin dropped the rag and came, letting his head rest on Arthur’s shoulder.

The armor made it awkward, but he held Merlin as best he could. 

“You know that she’s my friend,” Merlin whispered. “That I’m glad you married. That—”

“I know.” Arthur hushed him and took off his gloves again so that he could feel Merlin’s hair as he tilted his head and kissed him. “Never think that I do not want you, too. We will find a way to manage all this, I promise.”

The turmoil in his mind and heart made him more aggressive than usual on the field, and Elyan looked surprised, but took his defeat with good grace. Oswin intercepted him in the bailey afterwards, wishing to discuss the appointment of a new bailiff of the hundred. Unsurprisingly, the local justice system had been quite corrupt under Agravaine, and with the late bailiff falling prey to a fever, the time seemed ripe to find someone who would apply the law fairly.

“And who might you recommend for the position?” Arthur asked Oswin.

“There is my cousin, Robert,” Oswin began to say before faltering. “But no—Hugh of Bodmin would be a likelier choice, sire. He is respected by all and would uphold the king’s justice.”

“I shall meet with him, then, and we will see.” Arthur scrubbed a hand through his sweaty hair. “Now before you rush off, I wish to speak to you a moment.” He led Oswin into the hall, tables barren at this hour, and sat on a bench. 

Oswin sat beside him slowly, still nervous in Arthur’s presence.

“You said that you have lived here all your life. I wished to ask you,” Arthur paused, gathering his courage, “if you might relate any stories of my mother—or my uncle. I never knew her, you see, and my uncle—I do not understand how he could have done what he did.”

“I was not intimate with the family, sire,” Oswin protested, sounding slightly shocked.

“Of course not.” Arthur tried again. “But you lived by them, saw them, surely listened to the kitchen gossip.”

“I give no heed to gossip, milord.”

How Arthur wished he could set the man at ease, that Oswin might behave more like Merlin (and he usually did not think _that_ about his other servants, but to get the man to tell him something, anything…)

Perhaps seeing the pleading look in Arthur’s eyes, Oswin at last said, “The Lady Ygraine was…delicate. Like a little wren, I always thought.” He cleared his throat, embarrassed. “Her brothers were devoted to her, sire. Absolutely devoted. And neither of them cared much for Uther—thought he was beneath her. When she died—well, it broke her mother’s heart, sire, and she died, too, not long after. Then Tristan went to challenge Uther and was killed. Agravaine blamed Uther for all the misery he had brought to this house.”

Oswin’s own voice had grown bitter, and Arthur could see that he had felt the same. 

“Agravaine knew Uther kept a close eye on him—the late king was no fool, and he saw well enough that Agravaine would go against him at a moment’s notice.” Oswin’s eyes flickered to Arthur, and he swallowed, uneasy. “When Uther grew ill, Lord Agravaine saw his chance at last. I do not know how he met the witch, but she held out to him the promise of revenge.”

“Thank you, Oswin,” Arthur said when it was clear that there would be no more. 

“Sire.” Oswin bowed and retired from the hall, leaving him to sit alone.

So, another tale of sorrow. More sins to lay at his father’s hands. Arthur tried to harden his heart to it—he had suspected something of the kind, certainly. But oh, he had wished so that he might find happier memories here. Beautiful stories that he could fill his mind with instead of the dark tragedies that he must dwell on instead.

Margaret and Leon’s parents and assorted relations arrived at the end of the week, and soon the keep was overflowing with festive preparations for the wedding. Having grown up at Leon’s manor before their family moved to Camelot, Gwen and Elyan knew much of the family. This was the first time, however, that the lord and lady were meeting Gwen as queen. The first meeting was as stiff and awkward as Arthur had feared, but Gwen persevered, refusing to let it affect her, and soon the others adjusted. It helped that both Leon and Margaret treated Gwen with the utmost respect, and Arthur could only thank the gods that Leon had stood by him all these years and had never wavered in his support.

Indeed, all the ladies kept quite close counsel, sewing the wedding clothes, going on expeditions to gather greenery to decorate the hall, and talking incessantly. Elyan, Leon, and Gwaine kept Percival busy, whisking him off on hunting trips and clandestine dancing lessons. Meanwhile, Osbert had commandeered the kitchen, Merlin was intent on preparing enough palliatives for the morning after the wedding feast, and Sperling kept sequestering himself in odd corners to practice ballads. 

Indeed, everyone seemed to have something to do about the wedding except Arthur, and so he found himself spending much of his time wandering around Tintagel, thinking. He wondered if his father and mother had wed here or in Camelot. Had his mother loved Uther as much as he had loved her? He could not help remembering the vision of Ygraine that Morgause had shown him. Part of him still wished that it had been real. That his mother had forgiven him. 

All these people about Tintagel—he knew that many of them must have known his mother. But he could well imagine what would happen should he ask any of them about her. It would be a string of “yes, sire” and “no, sire,” and they would only tell him what they thought he wanted to hear. He had been lucky to get as much as he had out of Oswin. 

Merlin found him one afternoon, sitting alone near the cliff’s edge under the leeward wall of the castle. He settled next to him, and they looked out on the water, silent for a time.

Then Merlin edged a little closer, his arm pressing against Arthur’s. 

“I thought I would find something of her here,” Arthur said, keeping his gaze on the white tips of the waves. “But it is only a place that she lived once.” He sighed and slumped down, stretching out, resting his head in the grass and throwing an arm across his eyes. 

Merlin’s fingers brushed against his hair. “You can sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

“For the vicious seagulls?” Arthur yawned. “Don’t let them eat you.”

He thought Merlin chuckled, and then all he heard was the splash of the waves, and all he felt was the warm sun, lulling him into a pleasant slumber.

In the dream, he stood in the same place that he slept in the waking world. The sun shone, and yet there were no shadows, and he could not feel the wind. Then he blinked, and when he opened his eyes, the light had changed. It was now morning, and the sea was just shifting from black to a grayish-blue. 

“Be careful, dear,” a voice said behind him, and he turned to see two women walking towards him. The one who had spoken was older and dressed in a voluminous tunic that billowed around her in the wind. She had her hand on the elbow of the other woman who was…with a jolt of his heart, he recognized his mother. 

He made a noise and reached out to her, but neither of them so much as glanced at him. He stared at her face. Yes, it was the same woman as he had seen in Morgause’s spell. Small and delicate, her blond hair tucked away under her veil. She walked slowly, one hand resting on the swell of her stomach, which pushed out her tunic. He swallowed against a dry throat. She must be with child, pregnant with him, and this was some—some mad vision from the past. 

But no, he was asleep. And this was only a dream. 

The disappointment made tears burn his eyes, but he blinked them away. If this was all he was to get, then he would take it, and never reckon whether it was truth or merely the deep yearnings of his heart. 

“Here we are, milady,” the other woman said, leading Ygraine to a rock that had a flattened slope to one side and helping her to sit. 

“Thank you, Sanan.” Ygraine sighed, stretching out her slippered feet. “Just look at the rampion—how it grows, here by the wall. I must pick some for my room.” Then she began speaking more softly, resting her hand on her stomach. “Every day I have brought you outside, little one. Every day so that you might come to know the land and feel it as your own. Shhh, now, rest easy and do not kick me so hard.” She turned to Sanan, laughing. “He wants to be out in the wind and the weather.”

“Ah, so certain you are, that it shall be a son.” Sanan shook her head. “Better to wait than to guess wrong.”

Ygraine’s smile turned slow and secret. “I am certain. Nimueh told me.”

“Her! I’ve told you, milady, I do not think you should spend time with that woman. Always out for herself and her own fortunes, she is. Of course she says it is a son, for that is what the king wants to hear.”

Ygraine did not reply, but she did not stop smiling, either. Arthur drew closer to her, desperate to touch, but afraid if he did that all would vanish. 

“I’ve decided on a name for him,” Ygraine said after a time, and Sanan tutted but squeezed her hand gently. 

“I think he should be called Arthur.” She said it again, whispering, “Arthur. Can you hear me, little one?”

Tears clouded his vision, and he blinked them away. He knelt beside her so that he could look up into her face and see the love written across it. 

“Soon I’ll hold you in my arms, darling, and I’ll sing to you, like this.” She hummed a soft tune, and he strained to hear it before the wind snatched it away. 

The dream faded around him, like water seeping into sand. He kept his eyes on his mother as long as he could, but finally she disappeared, and he came back to himself, feeling the solidness of his own body and the earth below him. 

Merlin was propped up on one elbow, watching him. He smiled to see Arthur awake and said quietly, “It was a good dream?”

“Yes.” He squeezed his eyes shut again, wanting to remember every moment. Dreams so often fled from conscious thought, vanishing upon any attempt at recollection. But to his relief, it remained as vibrant as new-dyed wool. 

He opened his eyes again to see Merlin slipping something into his tunic. “What is that?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Merlin said quickly and fidgeted. “Only your mother’s sigil.” He drew it forth again slowly, tracing the edge of the bird’s wing with his thumb. 

“Why do you have it here?”

“I—” Merlin fumbled for words. “It seemed appropriate. And besides, we needed something of hers.”

Arthur tried to make sense of this, still caught in the emotions of his dream. “Why?”

“Oh, no reason in particular,” Merlin said, contradicting himself. And he smiled that little smile of his that Arthur could never figure out. 

He could ask. He could force Merlin to tell him, hounding him and cornering him until he gave up the truth. But such a course of action always felt wrong. It would be an abuse of his power, a king coercing his servant. 

And so, as he had many times before, he let it go, and settled for pulling Merlin down against him. He would rather have this—Merlin’s lean but strong body in his arms—than Merlin cowed and submissive before him. 

He felt drowsy and a strange mix of melancholy and happiness from the dream, but he also wanted Merlin to touch him tenderly and to be able to rub his nose against Merlin’s sun-warmed skin. 

“Someone will see,” Merlin said when Arthur tugged down his tunic to kiss his shoulder. 

“No—we’re out of sight of the gate. And even if someone does, it is no matter.” He hitched Merlin’s leg up so he could slide his own under it. “I’m the king, after all.”

“But what you said about Gwen—”

“I know, but let us not mind politics or courtiers or position—not now. We will be back in it all again, soon enough. But for just a few minutes, let us not think on it.” He smiled. “I am happy, and you are here, and I do not want the day ruined.”

He began rocking his hips so they rubbed against each other. Merlin fisted a hand in the back of his tunic and laid his cheek against Arthur’s, tilting his head just a little. His hair brushed against Arthur’s mouth. 

Arthur reached into Merlin’s hosen, turning his head so he could kiss Merlin’s temple. Then he pushed up Merlin’s tunic and pushed down his braies and hosen, just enough to free his cock. He had to neglect him a moment to fumble with his own clothes. Merlin looked down to watch Arthur take both of them in hand, and his breath turned hot against Arthur’s face.

“You ate onions at supper.” Arthur wrinkled his nose. 

Merlin puffed another breath, laughing when Arthur stuck his hand in his face, trying to turn him away. 

Then Merlin licked his palm, and Arthur found something better to do with his hands. 

He spilled first, and Merlin whimpered against his neck as Arthur’s fingers skimmed over him, sticky with fluid. He came with a shudder, going limp in Arthur’s arms. Arthur tucked Merlin’s head under his chin, kissing his messy hair. 

“What would I do without you?” he murmured.

Merlin kissed him, very gently, and then he smiled and laughed, burrowing into Arthur’s arms again. “The kingdom would fall apart, for certain.”

Arthur smiled, too, and let their usual banter assume its customary place. “Oh, yes? Are you sure I would not find a measure of peace? None of your insubordinate remarks. None of your mad capers.”

“You pay no heed to my labors.” Merlin adopted a long-suffering tone. “Having to put up with a cabbage-head such as yourself.”

“You’d best watch your tongue, Merlin, or you’ll land yourself in the stocks.”

Merlin wriggled a bit, and Arthur knew he was grinning. “Do you often dream of me bound and held at your mercy, sire? How shocking.”

“Be still,” Arthur ordered, grabbing at Merlin’s arse, “or you’ll have to answer for the state you put me in.”

Merlin laughed at that and Arthur fell to kissing him once more, if only to keep his ridiculous mouth quiet.

“I’m thinking of bestowing Tintagel on Percival and Margaret,” he announced to Gwen the next day when they were sitting in the little cloistered garden, listening to Elyan play his citole. Elyan was bending close to his instrument, grimacing when his fingers—calloused by sword and hammer hilt—failed to pick the melody correctly.

“Percival would be a goodly lord, I think,” she said. “The moreso because he knows how much this place means to you.” 

They were silent for a moment, and then Gwen asked quietly, “You are glad, then, to have come here?”

“Yes,” he said, thinking of his dream. 

Gwen smiled and let him leave it at that, for which he was grateful. 

“And how have you found steward Oswin?” Gwen asked, reaching down to pet one of Tintagel’s resident dogs who had wandered over and flopped down next to her, hoping for some attention. “Do you think he is loyal to us?”

“I believe so. He recommended me a good man for bailiff when he might have put forth one of his own family who was less qualified. Still, I shall keep an eye on the situation and—”

“Milady!” Ema tumbled into the garden, Merlin tripping on her heels. “Milady, you must come at once! The lady Margaret has fallen into a quarrel with her mother over the wedding clothes, and they are both in tears.”

“Oh, goodness,” Gwen exclaimed, jumping up and hurrying after Ema. 

“And one of the squires saw Percival taking a barrel of ale out behind the stables,” Merlin added, and Elyan swore and abandoned his citole, dashing off in the same direction Gwen had gone.

Arthur made to get up and then sank back down, realizing that he would be superfluous in either endeavor. Merlin sat next to him.

“You really are rather useless at this whole wedding affair, aren’t you?” he commented, biting back a grin.

Arthur swatted his arm. “Shut up, Merlin. As though your primary concern isn’t the exact number and composition of tarts and pies that Osbert shall be making for the feast tomorrow.” 

Merlin was unrepentant. 

“I suppose I shall have to give a speech,” Arthur mused. “It seems to be expected.” He sighed. “Get on that, will you, Merlin?”

“I’m not going to spend my whole night writing speeches for you.”

“And where was this reluctance when I had to speak to the guild of harness polishers?”

“I spent an entire afternoon with George in the armory,” Merlin retorted. “You’d be able to write a whole _book_ on polishing, after that.”

“How is George, anyway? Getting on all right with Leon?”

“Yes. Leon teases him a little—”

“How could one not?”

“—but he says his armor hasn’t looked so good in years.”

“Ah, yes, a happiness that some of us can only dream about.” 

He took a moment to relish Merlin’s outraged expression before asking, “And how is your mother?”

Outrage morphed into puzzlement. “Um, in good spirits?”

“ _I_ don’t know, that’s why I’m asking _you_.”

Merlin directed a scowl at him that brightened into a smile as he began chattering. “She had a pain in her leg during the winter, but I made up a salve and sent it out with a wool merchant. I just received word with a stonemason passing through Camelot that he had been in Ealdor a week ago, and my mother sent her love and a hood she had made for me and word that her leg was much improved. And—”

“King Lot,” Arthur said, interrupting the recital. 

“Er…yes?” Merlin blinked. “What about him?” 

“He has control of Ealdor now, and most of Essetir, thanks to the confusion after Cenred’s death.”

“I know that—I was there, remember?”

Arthur pretended to look surprised. “But of course! Now I recall—you were hiding behind a pillar in the hall for the dangerous bits.”

“Just for that, I’ll spill the sauce down your tunic at supper,” Merlin threatened.

Sartorial misunderstandings and other perils safely overcome thanks to Guinevere’s skill at soothing hurt feelings and the timely arrival of Elyan and the other knights to share the ale with Percival, the wedding proceeded without mishap.

“Do you remember our wedding feast?” Gwen asked as they danced together, surrounded by the merriment of the company. 

“You mean when Gwaine and Elyan ‘accidentally’ doused Leon with a pitcher of ale, and Merlin spilled pickled eggs all over Lady Anna’s dress? Not to mention the disaster with Percival and that fiddle player.” 

Gwen laughed. “It did have its moments.”

Leon approached them when the song ended and begged Gwen’s favor for the next dance. Arthur handed her off and took his turn with Margaret.

“I must thank you again, sire,” she said, her eyes downcast—still as shy as always. “I never expected that you should grant us Tintagel. It is more than generous.”

Arthur smiled, trying to get her to look at him. “But do you like it? Will you care for it? That is my chief concern.”

“Oh, yes!” And now she did raise her eyes, bright and happy. “It is so dear to me already. And we have such plans, Percival and I. For the garden, and improving the harbor, and—but I will not trouble you with all that.”

“Please, trouble me,” he said, earnest. “Write to me often, and tell me how you get on. All the details—I will want to hear them.”

“Very well.” She hesitated, and then added softly, “I thought I might plant something in the garden in honor of Queen Ygraine. Will you tell me what sort of things she liked?”

“I do not know, alas. But perhaps you might plant some rampion,” he added, minded of his dream. “It is a pretty flower, at any rate.”

“I will,” Margaret promised, “and I will give the queen some to bring back to Camelot. She had mentioned that she wanted a cutting or some seeds for your garden.”

“I should like that,” Arthur said, and he felt something ease in his heart. No longer would he have to go to the tombs to be close to his mother.

Guinevere seemed content to dance until dawn, but he said his goodnights soon after, ignoring certain slanderous comments among his knights regarding his advancing years. 

Merlin accompanied him up to their room and quietly stoked the fire and prepared the bed while Arthur sat, listening to the music drifting up from below and thinking idly. When he climbed into bed, Merlin blew out the candle and then crawled up beside him, curling against his side. 

“Sleepy?” Arthur asked, rubbing his hand along Merlin’s arm and the fine, thick cloth of his surcoat. It was red, the dragon stitched in gold thread on the front. It always pleased him to see Merlin in his livery. 

Merlin nodded, closing his eyes and stealing some space on the pillow. 

“Me, too. I shall miss the sea when we return to Camelot,” he added after a moment, “But I find myself longing for home—the bustle of the lower town, the view from the ramparts, that sunny patch by the wall near the armory.”

Merlin did not reply, and Arthur looked down to find that he was asleep. 

When Gwen came into the chamber a while later, he started to shake Merlin awake, but Gwen said, “Let him be,” and found another blanket in a chest and shook it out, draping it over him and Merlin. He watched with heavy eyes as she took off her jewelry and unbound her hair. 

“I left Ema dancing with Elyan,” she murmured. “At this rate I will lose all of my ladies to your knights.”

Arthur helped her settle in beside him. “Are you ready to return to Camelot?”

“Yes, although it has been lovely here. So much less formal than our court.”

“I was thinking,” he continued softly after a moment, “that perhaps we might bring Merlin into our bed like this more often, and not only when the nights are cold.”

Gwen was silent a while. “For…lovemaking?”

“No,” he said hastily, trying to keep his voice down so Merlin did not wake. “None of us wants that, I do not think. But—well, he said that he grows lonely.”

Gwen rose on one elbow to look at Merlin. “We cannot have that,” she said gently, reaching across Arthur to tuck the blanket more securely around Merlin’s shoulders. 

Arthur caught her hand and kissed it, then turned so that he could put his arm around Merlin, while Gwen pressed against his back, slotted neatly against him. 

He could never have given either of them up and could only be grateful that they were willing to share him, though it could be awkward navigating the waters between them. But Merlin and Guinevere had given him a love and acceptance that he had never found before—not from Uther, not from Morgana—and he would gladly pay any price to keep them near.


	3. Until His Hour Should Come

A fortnight later, they left Margaret and Percival installed in Tintagel and took to the road once more. Their travel was much improved this time around—fair weather, with only a shower or two to dampen the dust of the highway. Oddly, the farther away from Tintagel they went, the less healthy the crops became. Riotous growth gave way to what Arthur would have expected to see given the time of the season and the cold, wet spring. Still, the barley and wheat was no longer drowning in the fields, and there would be a harvest, barring any future calamities. 

Back in Camelot, it seemed he scarcely managed to catch his breath before preparations for the tourney at midsummer began. It would be the first such event since he became king, and he hoped to forestall any potential problems. The sudden influx of knights and squires that would begin arriving would all need housing, and inevitably tensions would rise between the visitors and city inhabitants, particularly once the ale began flowing. He had consulted with Leon on hiring extra guards for the duration of the tourney, despite the expense, and had more than enough on his mind. And now—

“Why do the guilds choose this moment to bring their request forward?” he demanded of Guinevere one morning as they walked down the Potters’ Street, trailing a retinue of men-at-arms and various courtiers who had decided to take the air and let the populace admire their rich attire. “This charter or whatever it is they want to call it.”

“Because they know the tourney will draw large numbers of people to the city who will need food and drink and lodging,” Gwen replied. “Knights who will buy armor, and squires who will purchase ribbons for their sweethearts. The merchants will make a substantial profit—and demonstrate their value to the Crown.”

“And in return they want release from their duties to me.” He grimaced, fending off a pig headed for a pile of garbage in an alley. “They already enjoy privileges enough—do I make them labor in my fields or on repairs to the castle? I do not!”

“But they offer to pay a tax. And considering the state of our coffers—”

“I know how we stand well enough.”

“If anyone should attack…”

“I know,” he repeated. They drew near to the castle gate, and he made a mental note to have Leon send someone to oil the portcullis. The last thing they needed was for it to rust itself shut. “I think you should meet with the guilds.”

“Me?” Gwen turned startled eyes on him. “But I—”

“You are the queen. And I did not marry you only to have you look pretty on my arm at feasts.”

“If you are trying to wriggle out of this just because you don’t want to spend your days haggling over the particulars…”

“I ask because I think you would do well with it. You will not let them demand more than is just, but you will also not dismiss them out of hand.”

“Arthur,” she said, still sounding suspicious.

“Guinevere,” he replied, smiling. 

She huffed a little laugh. “Very well. I will meet with the guilds. If you are sure…”

“I am sure. Besides, it will throw them off their balance. They will think you easy to sway, though you will disabuse them of the notion swiftly.”

“But what if I do not?”

“You will. Did you not stand up to Agravaine in front of the entire council? Oh yes, Gaius told me of that.” He caught her hand and kissed it. “And now I must go prepare for the business of the day. I feel like I spend all my time in that damnable council chamber,” he added, “with Geoffrey correcting me on the finer points of law and my chancellor bringing a never-ending pile of petitions and edicts for my approval.”

“Just think, the tourney will begin soon.” 

“It will be passing good,” he agreed, brightening and giving her his arm as they walked up the stairs to the solar. “The jousts and the melees, the forfeits and challenges.”

Gwen gave him a long look. “And you must promise me, Arthur, that you will not be taking part in them.”

He had not intended to do so. Of course he had not. “I know what is expected of me as king,” he said, a trifle stiffly, opening their door and pulling off his mantle. 

“It is too risky, dear heart,” Gwen said, her voice softening. “One wrong blow from a lance and—”

“Can I not even miss it?” He turned from her, going to the window and glancing out, rubbing his thumb along the leaded pane. 

“You put yourself in danger too often as it is. Joining this tourney—” 

“I know. I know that it would be foolish. Though feats of arms are the only thing I have never failed at.” 

He had not meant to speak that last aloud. So he quickly called for a servant and ordered some wine. “Find Merlin, too, and tell him I require him,” he added before going to Guinevere and placing his hands on her shoulders. “I will not fight. I promise.”

She kissed him and smoothed back his hair, looking a little sad and worried but not pursuing the matter. 

_I’m good with a sword, that’s all._

He had said as much to Merlin once. Merlin, who had then led him to Excalibur. And he had pulled it out—pulled it from solid stone. And yet—

Well, it was one thing to cast off doubts in the heat of battle. Another to keep them at bay through every long hour and day that followed.

He escaped at last from Geoffrey’s ponderous recitals and went out for a round of training with the knights. His left shoulder had been aching a little lately, the old scars from beast and dragon acting up, but he was pleased to find that it did not bother him today, and he lifted his shield with no trouble.

“You seem to have been practicing a lot recently,” Merlin observed afterwards in the armory, unbuckling Arthur’s vambrace. “More than usual.”

Arthur twisted around to give him a glare. “Did Guinevere put you up to this? I am _not_ going to compete in the tourney!” 

“As long as you are sure, sire,” Merlin murmured deferentially—or as deferential as Merlin ever got. 

“I am sure, and I’ll thank the two of you to trust me.”

As they left the armory, Merlin touched his arm. “I’m sorry. I know you love it.”

Arthur shrugged off his concern. “My life is different now.” 

“Still…”

“It will be enough to watch my knights.” He ducked into a passageway off the corridor, grabbing Merlin’s arm to drag him along. “Come here a moment.”

The passageway opened onto a tiny yard round the back of the kitchens. An out of the way sort of place that had a patch of grass and a corner of wall that always seemed to be in the sun and out of the wind. They sat down there now, and Arthur stretched out his legs.

“Just a few minutes,” he said, letting his eyes slip closed.

Merlin made an agreeable noise.

“I heard from Leon this morning that Gwaine did get that inn-keeper’s daughter with child.” 

“Oh, yes.” Merlin shook his head, smiling. “Gwaine mentioned it to me today, too. I still say it shall be a son.”

“You’ll lose our wager, then. And I’ll expect a smile on your face when you’re polishing my chainmail, Merlin. Willing and cheerful, wasn’t that it?” 

He grew quiet for a time. “I should have liked to have had a son,” he said at last, hearing the words that he had been thinking for months now.

He felt Merlin go still beside him. “Arthur,” he began, carefully.

“I will _not_ be my father in this. I will not.”

“All right,” Merlin said. “It will be all right.”

He knew Gwen thought these things, too, and he didn’t want her to feel afraid that he would ever abandon her. So even though presents were a poor form of love, he bought her a new necklace—a golden thread of opals—and gave it to her the following evening when they were at last resting in the solar, enjoying cups of hippocras, and Ema’s gentle strumming of a gittern in one corner.

“What is this for?” Gwen asked, letting him fasten it around her throat.

He kissed her. “No particular reason. I only thought you would like it.”

“I do—thank you, Arthur. It’s beautiful.” She laughed. “I still find it hard to believe that I am truly here. In the castle, in your chambers, wearing the finery of a queen.”

“And are you glad to be here?” he asked, fetching Albreda from her perch and sitting down again. 

She smiled. “Yes. I am glad. Although,” she added after a moment, “the guilds are being even more obstinate than I feared. I met with their representatives for the first time this afternoon, as you know, and they spent half the time trying to get me to call you in to advise us.”

Albreda shifted on his arm, and he stroked her breast feathers. “And did you set them to rights?” 

“As best as I could. It helped that I know the wives of several of them and was able to imply that I should hate to have to speak to them of the rudeness of their husbands.”

He laughed. “Well done.” 

“The advantage only goes so far, I’m afraid. For they continually remind me of your willingness to depart from convention—alluding to myself as an example—to argue for the charter.”

“And what exactly do they want?”

“Release from their feudal duties in return for payment of a tax, as we thought. But—”

“There is more, then? I thought as much.”

“They also want you to pursue treaties with neighboring lords and kingdoms that will guarantee the protection of the merchants’ goods as they travel to fairs. If robberies occur, the merchants will receive a payment equal to the worth of the stolen goods.”

“If they do not trouble to hire guards, I cannot see how it is my fault when they fall prey to bandits.” Albreda, sensing his irritation, raised her wings, and he took her back to her perch lest she become overexcited. She had not wanted her breakfast the other morning, and he worried that she felt poorly, despite Samer’s assurances.

“If lords refuse to try and roust bandits out of the woods,” Gwen began, “then perhaps they have just grievance.”

“Have I not helped when possible? That whole business with Lord Rocelin, for example. In his last letter, he assured me that the outlaws were much diminished.”

“I reminded them of it, you may be assured.”

He thought Gwen sounded a trifle perturbed, so he hastened to say, “I do not doubt that you are handling the situation.”

“Yes, well,” Gwen took a deep breath, “I am trying my best.”

“I thought you were wonderful, milady,” Ema piped up, stilling her gittern for a moment. 

“Thank you, Ema. Come and help me take my hair down, won’t you?”

Arthur leaned against the back of his chair, watching as Ema unpinned Gwen’s hair and then began brushing out the long tresses. Gwen caught him watching and smiled, a hint of kindling passion in her eyes.

He restrained himself until Ema had departed. Merlin had already been and gone earlier in the evening, called off to help Gaius with a critical procedure involving thread, forceps, and other things Arthur didn’t like to think about. 

He wrapped his arms around Gwen’s waist, smelling the cinnamon in her hair, and kissed her soft cheek. 

She leaned into him with a sigh, and he tugged down her shift enough to cup his hand around one of her breasts, kneading her nipple until it stiffened. 

“I’ve been wanting this all day,” Gwen whispered, and she got a handful of his cock through his hosen, giving it an encouraging squeeze.

The admission made him jerk her round to face him, finding her mouth in a rough kiss. Gripping her waist, he hoisted her onto the table. 

“Here?” Gwen breathed, startled.

“Here,” he confirmed, latching back onto her mouth as he tried to simultaneously free his cock and ruck her shift up around her waist. A few hasty, confused moments later, his fingers slipped between her legs, encouraging her to grow wet for him.

“ _Oh_ ,” she moaned when he pressed into her at last. She wrapped her legs around him, clinging as he started thrusting. He fucked such perfect little sounds from her—deep-chested groans and whimpers that grew higher when he pushed her down to lay on her back, legs spread wide. 

Spending deep inside her pulled a cry out of his throat, and then he slumped down, mouthing at her breast.

Gwen fisted her hand in his hair. “Arthur, no, you can’t—I need—”

So he rubbed her sex until she tightened around him, gasping, her eyes squeezed shut. 

They stayed there a few moments, breathing deeply. At last Gwen spoke, “I would let you stay in me until you readied enough to take me again—”

He groaned at the thought, cock jerking. 

“—but this table is very hard,” she finished. 

Reluctantly, he pulled out of her and helped her down, following her to the bed. They stripped off their sweaty clothes and curled under the blankets, kissing again. 

“Will you—?” Gwen murmured, guiding his hand back between her legs, and he obliged, more than willing to pass the night in pleasure than sleep.

The sun shadow crept slowly along the floor. Arthur stared at it, sighed, and looked up at Leon again. He was supposed to go hawking that afternoon with Lord Rocelin, who had arrived for the tourney. But first, as always, he had innumerable items of business to which he must attend.

“Half of them do not even have proper armor, sire,” Leon continued. “They have arrived from all over the kingdom—sons of butchers and farmers and millers. I saw one—and I jest not—wearing a kettle upon his head.” 

“We could donate your armor to one of them, sire,” Merlin said brightly from the corner where he was feeding Albreda a mouse. 

“Do be quiet, Merlin.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed again. “I will not stop them from entering the tourney. It would be hypocritical.”

“But they are going to end up dead, sire,” Leon protested. “Set any of them against a real knight, and they’ll be wounded or killed. Not to mention that most have never even ridden a destrier, let alone held a lance.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“Bar them from competing. Hold to the old rules that demand a knight provide his own armor, horse, and lance.”

“The rules that privilege wealthy men over the poor.” 

Leon grimaced. “Yes, sire.”

“And yet your own sister married Percival!”

“And it took us months to give Percival—and Elyan—the training they needed to be our match upon the field.”

Damn Leon for his reasonable replies. “Very well. But I want you to open the knights’ training sessions to any who care to participate. Let them know that I will be searching for likely candidates for knighthood and will provide a few—a select few, mind!—with horse and armor.” 

Leon did not look well pleased. “It will be like chasing ducks around the common, trying to manage a bunch of country lads swinging swords about.” 

“If any can handle them, it is you.”

Leon gave him a look that said he knew exactly what Arthur was doing, but left without further protest.

Arthur turned to the next matter, a summary from his chancellor of all his current sources of income. He had asked for it so that he and Gwen might decide whether it would indeed be beneficial to the Crown to allow the guilds their charter. A tax might be worth more, in the end, even if it did weaken their obligations to him.

_The King has the markets of the Cold Fair and the stalls of the butchers in the Gate Street. The King also has jurisdiction in cases arising in regard to the stalls of the butchers. He also has the hall of the cordwainers. The King has an undivided share in a house back of the dwelling of the provost, which contains 18 rooms, large and small, rented for—_

“I think they want a purpose,” Merlin said, interrupting him. 

Arthur shook the vellum at him in a pointed matter. “I am reading.”

“It’s what I wanted, when I came to Camelot,” Merlin continued, oblivious. 

Sighing, Arthur set down the report. “What are you talking about?”

“The men who want to be knights. They need someone to give them a purpose.” He swiped a cloth across the table in a desultory manner, completely missing a little pile of crumbs. Arthur frowned at it. 

“Sometimes I think it would have been easy to end up like Morgana,” Merlin continued.

“You never make any sense,” Arthur complained. “What has Morgana got to do with this?”

“I just mean that she only wants power. She doesn’t have a purpose beyond herself—something that’s worth protecting and working towards.”

“She has a purpose,” Arthur returned bitterly. “She wants me dead.”

“So that she might take the throne. All her power—she only uses it for her own gain.”

“Are you trying to imply that I might have followed the same path she did? Placing my own glory ahead of my people’s well being?”

“No!” Merlin gave him an earnest look. “No. I didn’t mean you. Only that it could have…happened to others that I know.”

Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes for a moment. “Merlin. Don’t you have other duties to attend to? Duties that do not involve standing here, rambling on, while I’m trying to get work done?”

“Yes. But—just give these men a chance, Arthur. They only want to serve you.”

Arthur watched him leave, pondering yet again the complex creature that was Merlin. 

And how appropriate that the next letter his chancellor had left for him to sign was the missive he had dictated to King Lot. It began with the usual formalities and then continued:

_I write to you concerning a small matter. Small, at least, to you, though not to me. It concerns a village on the western borders of your land, called Ealdor. This village is poor and of little note, but stands very near the manor of one of my late father’s dearest friends, Sir Baldric. Many women from Ealdor have taken husbands from among his farmers and there is much commerce between the two markets. Matters of law would be much simplified were Ealdor to be brought within my jurisdiction. In return, I should consider lowering the tax on imports of wool from your lands, a concern of which I have heard much complaint from the tongues of your merchants. I hope that you may consider doing me this small favor and that it serve as a symbol of a congenial relationship between our kingdoms._

Of course, to his knowledge, Uther had never even met Sir Baldric. But hopefully it would be enough to sway Lot. He set his quill to the letter, glad that at least in some things, the right path lay straight and clear before him.

The weather grew hot and late afternoons found clusters of squires dipping their hats into the cisterns or sneaking into the castle fish pond for a swim. Arthur watched as Leon evicted two scrawny specimens, dripping wet and squeaking their apologies lest they find themselves in the stocks.

“And how have the country boys, fresh from barn and field, been taking to the sword?” he asked when Leon returned from depositing the two miscreants none-too-gently outside the gate. 

“They charge about like a herd of bellowing bulls,” Leon grumbled. “A few whacks from a sword and an introduction to Hephastes have served to dampen their enthusiasm, however. Quite a number have found their passions cooled and have retired to the ranks of the onlookers.”

Arthur chuckled, imagining the confrontation with Hephastes, the most headstrong stallion in the stables, who was as liable to bite you as speed you along the tilting field. “So I take it we need not save a seat at the Round Table for any of them.”

“Actually, sire, there is one who has shown most remarkable courage and fortitude. His name is Lionet, and he hails from Reeve’s Crossing, the son of a miller.”

“I shall come watch him this evening, then. Tell him that if he impresses me, I shall grant him horse, armor, and sword for the tourney.”

“Yes, sire.” 

Leon went on his way with a bow, and Arthur went and stood at the bottom of the stairs leading up to Gaius’s chambers and shouted for Merlin. 

Merlin appeared at last, panting and smelling strongly of herbs. “I am not deaf, sire.”

“I will be training with the knights this evening,” Arthur said, ignoring the comment, “but I do not want to wear my usual armor. Find a different pauldron and vambraces and polish them up. Oh, and a different helmet, too.”

Merlin sputtered for a moment before finding his voice. “But I spent all morning polishing your armor! And there is nothing wrong with it, I might add. It is perfectly sound and serviceable and _already polished._ ”

“Merlin.”

Merlin—miraculously—quieted. 

“Go do as I ask.”

“If this is about competing in the tourney secretly—”

“I _said_ I was not going to do that. Now go.”

Merlin did not go, but instead gave him a searching look. Arthur, exasperated, turned him around and pushed him in the direction of the armory.

With Merlin at last dispatched on his errand, Arthur headed for the kitchens to procure some bread and a ladle of whatever sauce Osbert had simmering on the fire. He had missed dinner thanks to a sudden summons from Geoffrey over a matter of heraldic law that _must_ be settled before the beginning of the tourney on the morrow, and then had been waylaid by the sons of Lord Foulke, who had managed to evade the marshal of the hall in their zeal to bow before him, offer gifts of rare spices from their father, and ensure that he knew exactly how famously they would perform in the tourney. 

This time, he was able to reach the kitchens, although scarcely had a servant given him a trencher and meat before his steward, passing by on an errand, seized the moment to regale him with the troubling figures of exactly how much it was costing them to house and feed the many nobles who had arrived for the tourney.

_A king’s time is not his own to spend_ , Uther had often told him. Arthur could only acknowledge the truth of those words and try to snatch mouthfuls of food in between reminding Walter that the royal table could not be lacking in delicacies or fine wines. Appearances had to be kept up, no matter the cost of doing so.

“This is why you wanted the different armor, then?” Merlin asked, standing next to Arthur in the shadows of the gate that looked out on the bailey where the knights were practicing. “So you can fight this boy—this Lionet—without him recognizing you?”

“Correct.” Arthur held out his hand for his sword. “He has quite remarkable skill, wouldn’t you say?”

They had been watching Lionet for a while now, and Arthur had to admit that Leon had been right to mark the lad out. Lionet possessed an easy grace, a lightness on his feet that more than made up for his lack of brawn. When he pulled off his helmet in between bouts, he revealed a youthful face and a handsome one, with arched brows and a red mouth. Pale blond hair clumped in sweaty locks down his back. 

“And he claims to be a miller’s son?” Merlin sounded doubtful.

“So he claims.” He could as well be the bastard son of a nobleman, of course. But either way he would have little money to his name. Arthur drew his sword and stepped forward. 

“Another challenger?” Lionet exclaimed upon seeing him. “I am glad to see you, sir, for Sir Leon has promised me that the king himself will come to watch me fight. Yet he is not here, and already I have defeated his champion, Sir Gwaine.”

Gwaine, looking none too pleased, was sulking by the wall. A good lesson in humility for him, Arthur decided. 

He readied his sword and shield, but did not speak.

“Very well, sir, let us decide who is the finer knight between us, then,” Lionet said, and he mirrored Arthur’s pose. 

Their blades kissed, and then the fight began.

Arthur stayed on the defensive at first, letting Lionet press him backwards, parrying yet not attacking. The boy had to be getting tired—he’d already fought Gwaine, who was always quick and rough, willing to use his shield to bludgeon his opponent into submission. And yes, there was Lionet’s stroke wavering, his breath coming shallow and fast. 

He slashed his sword towards Lionet’s throat. Lionet barely met the blow in time, and he almost lost his footing. 

Panting, Lionet stumbled back. “So, now it truly begins, yes?” It sounded as though he were smiling.

An answering grin tugging at his mouth, Arthur raised his sword, swinging with all the force he could muster. Lionet grunted, their blades pressing close to his chest, and then he pushed back, sliding to the side and disentangling his sword. 

They circled each other for a moment, and then came together again.

A misplaced parry and a tired arm finally cost Lionet the battle. He sagged down on one knee. “You have the field, sir,” he said, pulling off his helmet. “May I know the name of so worthy an opponent?”

Arthur removed his helmet, and Lionet gasped, bowing. “Your highness!” 

“Rise, Lionet,” Arthur said, offering his hand. “That was well fought.”

“Had I but known, sire, I—”

“You would have gone a bit easier to ensure my victory?” Arthur smiled and shook his head. “Nay, I wished to learn your true measure. And so I have. You are extremely skilled with that blade.”

“Thank you, sire.” Lionet bowed again. 

“Sir Leon brought you to my attention, claiming that you should be allowed to fight in the tourney. And now I see that he was correct. I shall grant you sword, armor, and horse, and you shall wear my colors.”

“It is too much, sire,” Lionet protested, flushing. “I—I never expected—I do not ask—” he stammered.

“Then I command.” Arthur put a hand on his shoulder. “Camelot has need of skills such as yours. If you should perform admirably in the tourney, you may find a knighthood awaiting you.”

“My lord. It would be an honor.” Lionet clasped his hand to his heart. “I should serve you to my dying breath, sire.”

“I do not doubt it. First, though, you must face the best knights in the realm. Sir Gwaine, for one, will be looking to pay you back for the beating you gave him today.”

“I shall face him—all of them, sire. And I swear I shall bring no shame to your colors.”

“Spoken bravely, was it not, Sir Leon?”

Leon came over, looking a little disgruntled, no doubt over what he would call Arthur’s reckless disregard for his own life. “Very bravely, sire. I shall see Lionet to a room and find him a steed for the morrow.”

“And you shall dine with us after the first jousts,” Arthur added. “At table with the other knights. They may teach you a thing or two that will serve you well.”

“Or else terrify you with tales of jousting accidents,” Elyan put in, clapping Lionet on the shoulder. “Come, after Leon has you housed, we must buy Gwaine a drink, else he will carry a grudge.”

Arthur watched his knights take Lionet in hand, his pride stirring. He had not been wrong with these men, at any rate. 

“He almost beat you, didn’t he?” Merlin said, taking his sword. “I think I shall quite like him.”

“As though you know anything about sword fighting. I had it all well in hand.”

“If you say so, sire.”

But Arthur’s blood was up from the fight, and so he settled for crowding Merlin into his chambers when they reached them, shutting the door, and mouthing wetly at Merlin’s neck, one hand buried in Merlin’s soft hair to hold him still. 

“Arthur, let me—let me get your armor off—” Merlin gasped, swallowing a moan as Arthur fisted him through his hosen. 

His hauberk, at least, tumbled to the floor in a jangling heap. But his vambraces and gambeson remained on as he bent Merlin over the bed, urgency taking the place of comfort. His chest pressed against Merlin’s back, and he breathed in the scent of him, rubbing his nose against Merlin’s hair. 

“Mmph— _Arthur_.” 

“In time,” Arthur whispered, holding Merlin to him and placing a kiss behind one of his ears. Merlin stilled, although Arthur could still feel his heartbeat pounding against his ribs. He ran his fingers up his side, over his shoulder, and down to find his hand. “I remember when you used to feel so scrawny under me,” he marveled quietly. “Like you would break if I gripped you too hard.” He recalled so clearly their first time, when Merlin had trembled against him, kissing him over and over, and Arthur had almost thought Merlin would fly apart at his touch when he rested a gentling hand on Merlin’s chest and felt his heartbeat thrumming like a bird’s. 

Merlin smiled. “You’ve been stuffing me with breads and meat from the kitchens since then.”

“Because you’re a greedy little thing. Gluttonous.” He pushed up Merlin’s tunic and rubbed the knobs of Merlin’s spine, making him sigh and shift, nudging Arthur’s leg.

Some of the pulsing need had faded, and they went slower, though they ended up in the same place, Arthur’s prick nestled comfortably between Merlin’s thighs. They lay pressed together on their sides, and Arthur rather wished he had found the time to remove his gambeson, for he was too hot, yet unwilling to stop to take it off. 

“You were just a boy when you came to me,” he murmured. So young. And he had been young as well. Too young and foolish to recognize the courage and devotion hidden in those wide eyes and clumsy limbs.

But Merlin had forgiven it, and stayed with him.

Merlin smiled and twisted a bit so he could trace the press of Arthur’s mouth with a finger. “Is it not the king’s duty to care for his subjects? Yet you seem to be woefully neglectful.” He guided Arthur’s hand to his cock, arching his back with a groan when Arthur stroked it roughly.

“Your cheeky tongue hasn’t changed a wit.” Arthur thrust faster, and he muffled the shout of his climax in the crook of Merlin’s neck. Then he set about coaxing Merlin’s pleasure from him, fondling his sweet prick until it spurted, Merlin’s face scrunching up in ecstasy. 

Merlin was very slow about removing the rest of their clothing, afterwards, choosing to kiss and nuzzle Arthur’s body. He gently squeezed the slightly flabby flesh around Arthur’s middle—and perhaps he had been enjoying Osbert’s cooking a trifle too much, Arthur admitted to himself. But Merlin kissed him heartily and seemed to enjoy rutting his softening prick against Arthur’s stomach well enough.

Finally Merlin managed to tear himself away to fetch a cool cloth to sponge them both off. 

“The lot of you are all mad,” he said, yawning and flopping back down on the bed, “running around in the heat in all this armor.”

“It breeds fortitude.” Arthur cupped a handful of Merlin’s bony arse. “I think we might enjoy another round, yes?”

“Give your poor servant half a minute to recover!” Merlin exclaimed, but he clambered onto Arthur very eagerly for all that.

Arthur’s muscles protested the next morning when he rolled out of bed—from his exertions on and off the field—and a bruise mottled his left arm where Lionet’s shield had struck him.

Merlin made him sit while he rubbed an ointment of arnica onto it. 

“The blue surcoat, I think,” Arthur decided. “And my red tunic and hosen.” He eyed Merlin. “And you will change out of that disreputable piece of wool you are wearing immediately. You’ll be at my side all day—I will not have you looking like a stable boy.”

Merlin dabbed at his shoulder with a bit more force, and Arthur winced. “I wear this when I concoct medicines—such as the one I am applying right now. Gaius says I have ruined enough tunics to keep a tailor in money for a year.” 

“I have no doubts of that.” Arthur rolled his neck, trying to loosen stiff muscles. “After you have changed into something more suitable, you will fetch Albreda from the mews. Make sure to bring her some liver, if Osbert has any on hand. You know she is partial to it.”

Merlin began muttering about “that damnable bird,” but Arthur ignored him in favor of asking Guinevere if her council with the guilds had been postponed for the opening day of the tourney.

“It has,” Gwen replied, tilting her head so Ema could wrap her veil about her hair. “Just as I had finally begun wearing them down to reasonable tax percentage, of course. They only offered ten percent to begin with—can you imagine?”

Arthur could not attend every match and joust, much as he might wish to, but on this first day both he and Gwen would be presiding over the field. They rode out there together, through a town bedecked with pennants and wreaths of greenery. It promised to be a warm day, and he would have to make sure Merlin stood in the shade with Albreda after the initial parade had ended.

When they were seated in their chairs, the trumpeters blew a long note, and the knights rode forth. They looked so proud in their heraldry—that one bearing a black raven charge upon an argent field, another in deep purple with white oak leaves upon his shield, a third all in crimson and green, a fourth riding a horse that sported a caparison of blue and yellow in a chequered pattern. 

He pointed out Lionet to Guinevere as he rode by, his pale blond hair trailing behind him in the wind.

“Handsome,” she said. “And Merlin says he almost beat you.”

Arthur huffed. “Merlin is an incorrigible liar.”

At last his own knights appeared, their golden dragons so bright in the sun, and he longed to be with them so fiercely that it took his breath away.

Gwen took his hand in hers and squeezed it, and he gripped back. 

After a long argument with Gaius and Leon, he had finally acquiesced in having what seemed an inappropriately extravagant prize in a kingdom still recovering from war. 

“It will be a symbol of Camelot’s strength to neighboring kingdoms,” Gaius had insisted. “Your father did the exact same thing when he took the throne, despite his debts thanks to the expense of the war.”

And so a small tree had been cut down and brought to the field. From its branches hung gold and silver leaves, carefully crafted by a metalsmith. If a contestant succeeded in breaking a lance against his opponent, he would be awarded a silver leaf. Those who managed to unhorse their foe would receive a golden leaf. 

Even though he was not one of the competitors, he still felt the familiar feelings of trepidation and exuberance that had accompanied him every time he rode out onto the field, splendid in silk and armor.

He caught Gwen’s sigh on the edge of his hearing and turned to look at her. She was watching one of the knights, but he knew her eyes beheld another. It raised an answering echo of grief in his heart, and he chose to concentrate on that instead of the anger that accompanied it. 

“Lancelot would have done us proud, as he always did,” he said. 

“Yes.” Gwen blinked away her tears. “He would have.”

The trumpet heralding the first match sounded, and they both straightened, turning away from the past to meet the present of bright, living colors, and cheers and music.

Leon was in the first match, and Arthur was pleased to see him beat his opponent handily. It wouldn’t do to have his own knights give a poor showing. Elyan was almost unhorsed, but then, he was against Sir Aylwin, who only Arthur himself had managed to defeat in the tourney the year before.

When Lionet rode onto the field, Arthur leaned forward, watching how the lad handled himself. He seemed to be having a little trouble controlling his horse, but then he kicked it into a canter, leveling his lance at his opponent. It scored a direct hit on the other knight’s shoulder.

“Well done,” Arthur commented, clapping with the rest of the crowd.

“I should have thought him a veteran of many jousts,” Gwen said, “had I not known better.”

“This is the boy you told me of, sire?” Lord Rocelin asked, moving to stand under the palfrey. 

“Yes. A miller’s son, if you can believe it.”

“I can hardly credit it—yet what was it you said to me? That honor and nobility are not bound by fine clothes and high estate?”

“Yes, so I have found. And—here, what is the meaning of this? Guards! Bring that man to me immediately!”

The knight currently riding onto the field and bearing a yellow shield with a white swan upon it had made his obeisance to Arthur—and Arthur only. He had ignored Guinevere entirely, had looked past her as though she did not exist.

“Arthur, please,” Gwen said, low, “I do not want a scene.”

“I will not let this insult pass unheeded.” He stood up, glaring at the man who walked towards him, Leon gripping his arm tightly. Arthur was trying to place his coat of arms, but it was not until the knight removed his helmet that he knew.

“So. Sir Eanfrid.” His father was a distant cousin of Gorlois.

Eanfrid bowed. “Your majesty.”

“You owe that same honor to my queen,” Arthur told him. 

Eanfrid straightened. “With respect, sire, I do not. A knight, bow to a serving girl?”

Gwen flushed, her mouth trembling. 

Arthur said levelly, “She is your superior, and your queen.”

Eanfrid’s mouth twisted, but at last he bowed to Gwen and gritted out, “Your highness, my apologies.”

Arthur let him go, much as he would have loved to throw the man in the dungeon. But he could not play the tyrant—not with things still so delicate. 

To his pleasure, Eanfrid was soundly beaten in his match. And when Gwaine took the field in the next joust, he went to one knee before Guinevere and asked to wear her favor. Arthur nodded his gratitude and permission. Rocelin, too, had not failed him, standing tall and proud by Gwen’s side.

The incident was enough to mar his enjoyment of the day, though, and he could not help brooding on it in between jousts. He must pray that all went well with the guilds and their charter, that Guinevere was able to strike a fair bargain and prove to all that there was more to her than beauty so none had any grounds for thinking their marriage had been a mere whim on his part.

He was still in a black humor when Leon brought Lionet to him as they were preparing to return to the castle. Lionet had done well that day, winning his joust and even breaking his opponent’s lance. Arthur summoned the energy for a smile and congratulations.

“Lionet has earned a place at table with us tonight,” Leon said, a subtle reminder of Arthur’s invitation to the lad. 

“Of course. And you must wear your best,” Arthur told him. “Every unmarried lady in the hall will have her eyes on you.”

Yet Lionet seemed unconcerned with the looks he was receiving when he arrived in the hall that evening, and indeed hurried right up to Arthur in a shocking breach of courtesy. Yet Arthur forgave it—a miller’s son, after all, could not be expected to know how to behave on such an occasion. 

“You performed admirably today,” Arthur told him again, clasping his hand. “I should go to that village of yours and see if there are other knights in peasants’ clothing hiding there.”

“I would not trouble yourself, sire,” Lionet said quickly. “I owe my talent to the indulgence of my father who allowed me to practice with a rusted sword I found by the highway when I should have been helping about the mill.” 

“One day I may thank him personally. Now come, you will sit among my knights, and we will see if your strength is matched by courtesy.”

Arthur turned, his mantle swirling behind him, and Lionet gasped. 

“Sire, is that—?”

Arthur glanced back and saw the direction of his gaze. “Excalibur? Yes.” Amused by the awe in Lionet’s eyes, he drew it forth. “I had worn it to the tourney and forgot to have Merlin return it to my chambers. I should not wear a sword in my hall, even though it be this mighty blade.”

An almost greedy expression passed over Lionet’s face, and he reached out to touch it before recalling himself. Flushing, he dropped his hand. “It is…magnificent, sire. Did you really—?”

“Draw it from stone? I suggest you ask Sir Leon to tell you the tale, for he was there. My queen waits for me, and I sense the company is anxious to begin the feast.”

He guided Lionet to his place, and then went to his chair on the dais. Merlin poured the water so he could wash his hands.

“Were you showing Excalibur to Lionet?” Merlin asked softly, shooting a glance down the table at the young man.

“Yes—the lad was quite taken with it. But now you should stow it safely in my chambers.” Peace would reign in his hall that night—and every night and day thereafter if he could but command it to be so.

He went for a stroll in the garden after supper with a few of the lords and knights of high rank who were visiting for the tourney. Their talk was rife with questions about the kingdom’s finances, his plans for handling Lot and Odin, and, of course, rumors about Morgana.

“There have been whispers, sire, that she has been seen in a village to the south,” Sir Lagot said, lowering his voice. “I heard it from the mouth of my own steward, who swore that she had been poisoning swine and turning good milk sour.” Several of the nobles cast uneasy glances into the shadows about them, as though Morgana might be concealed in one, listening. 

“My sist—Morgana,” he said, recovering himself, “would not waste her time in pig sties. If she resurfaces, it will be with a far graver threat than a few dead sows. But I know her, now. And I shall be ready, if she returns. I promise you that.”

Even to his own ears, it sounded hollow. But what more could he say? He would not entertain the notion of negotiating with her, and he would not turn to magic himself. He would fight her with steel and sinew and courage. His father had kept this kingdom safe with no more than that, and he would do the same. 

Even if lifting the ban on magic made Morgana stop in her quest for revenge and power—and he put little faith in that thought—he was too afraid that it would prove to be the wrong decision. He had seen so much harm caused by magic. What would happen to the kingdom he was sworn to protect should he unleash such a force? 

The thought made his heart heavy with dread. Oh, he was not going to summon witchfinders or hunt down those using petty spells and charms. He saw no need for that. But to publicly condone all magic, including powerful sorcery—it would be as good as announcing that Uther had been wrong, that all his actions had been flawed.

And Arthur did not believe that—could not dishonor his father’s memory in such a way. Yes, he had turned aside from many of his father’s beliefs, but he had felt in his heart that on those matters, he was doing the right thing. On the subject of magic, though, his heart and mind were clouded—clouded with fear and grief and anger. 

Laying aside for a moment the fact that taking such a momentous change of course as lifting the ban on magic would throw the entire kingdom into tumult—and the gods knew, that sort of upheaval was the last thing they needed right now—he could not be sure that it would prove the right decision. 

He had already cost this kingdom enough by making the wrong choices. 

When he returned to his chambers, Merlin was nowhere in sight. He had sent two squires off looking for him by the time Merlin appeared, looking tired, worried, and disheveled. 

“And just where have you been, pray?” Arthur demanded.

“I was…” Merlin swallowed and glanced back at the door.

“At the tavern?”

“ _No_.” 

“In the butteries getting drunk on my ale?”

Merlin gave him an exasperated look. “I am Gaius’s assistant, too, you know. I can’t spend all of my time catering to your every whim.”

“Despite the fact that it is your express duty to do so,” Arthur reminded him.

“Now, sire, I thought I had managed to teach you to put on your own shoes.”

Arthur made to clip him on the ear for that insolence, but Merlin ducked, grinning. But as he folded Arthur’s tunic, his worried frown returned. 

“Are you sure that Lionet hails from Reeve’s Crossing?” he asked hesitantly.

“Not certain, though I see no reason to doubt him.”

Merlin fidgeted a moment, toying with the blankets on the bed. “Do you not find it strange that he should be so skilled with lance and sword?”

Arthur shrugged. “Look at Lancelot. He never had formal training; his family was impoverished. Yet he managed to outfight me, the once.” 

“It is not the same,” Merlin protested, tossing back the bedcovers. 

Sighing, Arthur sat down, prepared to wait out Merlin’s little fit of anxiety. He had noticed that whenever he favored someone, Merlin went through a phase of extreme protectiveness, jealousy, and suspicion. Look at his reaction to Mithian, for example, who was a lovely woman.

“And why is Lionet different?” he asked.

“He just…is,” Merlin said and gave a pillowcase a savage tug. “I am only saying that perhaps you should not be so quick to trust him.”

“Did you not say, a mere day or two past, that I should give men like Lionet a chance to serve me?”

“I am changing my mind,” Merlin muttered, pacing agitatedly past Arthur. “That was before and this is now.”

“Ah, such eloquence.” Arthur stood and caught him, holding him still. “I have been training knights for years, Merlin. I have good instincts when it comes to these matters. Even my father admitted it, which is why he gave me the privilege in the first place.” 

Merlin sighed and wilted a little. “Very well,” he said dully.

Arthur tried to kiss the pout off his lips, and Merlin allowed it, but he slipped away as soon as Gwen and Ema arrived.

Arthur scrutinized Lionet the next day, but he could find no reason for Merlin’s unease. Lionet continued to hold his own on the field, and in his speech and mannerisms off the field, he was all courtesy and deference. Indeed, Arthur noted that he now wore the favor of a lady, and Gwen told him that the Lady Nog’s daughter, Roana, had bestowed it.

Yet Merlin’s words troubled him. After all, Merlin had known all about Agravaine—had tried to warn Arthur as best he could. What if Lionet did have some sinister purpose in coming here? Arthur had spoken sanguinely to Merlin the night before, assuring him that he was not mistaken in judging Lionet’s character. But could he be so sure? 

Merlin disappeared again just past midday, and Arthur did not see him again until supper. Merlin was unusually well behaved, performing his duties faultlessly. It felt unnatural and made Arthur more nervous than Merlin’s glooms of the night before.

“What is it?” he asked afterwards, dragging Merlin into an alcove off the hall. “What is the matter with you?”

Merlin’s mouth quirked in a wry smile. “ _Now_ you ask the question, when George himself could not have done a better job of serving you?”

Arthur tugged Merlin’s tunic straight, smoothing the rough collar. “Well, setting aside the fact that you are barely presentable—could have come straight from the stables—”

Merlin cut him off by putting his long fingers against Arthur’s lips. He leaned forward, tilting his head, and replaced his fingers with his mouth. 

It took Arthur aback. Merlin rarely initiated anything between them, although he was always eager and ardent once Arthur started things with a kiss or caress. He allowed it, letting Merlin wrap his arms around his shoulders and linger over his mouth. 

And then Merlin drew back, bowing his head with a sigh. 

“What?” Arthur asked softly again.

Merlin shook his head. “It is no matter.”

“Is it about Lionet?”

“I—” Merlin hesitated, fidgeting. “I still do not feel right about him.”

“But why? I watched him today—closely—and could see nothing to provoke distrust.”

“It is just a feeling,” Merlin muttered. “But that does not mean I am not right.”

“I need more than that, Merlin.”

Merlin hung his head, looking wretched, and kept silent.

Relenting, Arthur gathered him close again. “You do your best, I know. And I also know you will not do anything foolish or provoke anyone, will you?”

He waited, stern, until Merlin gave a grudging nod. 

“I will ask Elyan, Gwaine, and Leon what they think of him,” Arthur promised. 

But when he asked, none of his knights had a word to say against Lionet. They all found him amiable, if a trifle over-ambitious.

“Although,” Elyan added thoughtfully, “he does not seem a country lad to me. At least, he is nothing like the boys of _my_ village. He is too well spoken. Too sure of himself.”

“Perhaps,” Leon said, “but look at Gwaine. He fit right in at court—had all the ladies falling over themselves and can be fair spoken when he has the mind.”

Gwaine looked oddly uncomfortable at the praise. “We are all of us different,” he said. “I am sure Lionet is simply intelligent—and who can fault him a desire to serve you, sire?”

All of which did not go far in helping Arthur to make up his mind.

On the second day of the tourney, Gwen returned to her meeting with the guilds, determined to cleave them to a bargain by the end of a sevenday. Arthur spent the morning on business with his chancellor, intending to go to the tourney in the afternoon, but a sudden rain squall swept up, and all agreed that the jousts could wait until the morrow.

He was just sending a squire to fetch Lord Rocelin and Sir Aylwin to see if they were interested in a game of tables, when the message from Samer reached him.

“I found her when I got back from exercising the sparrowhawks,” Samer said when Arthur arrived at the mews, and he twisted his hood in his hands.

Arthur looked down at Albreda, lying cold and stiff on the table. He stroked the feathers on her breast—still as soft and downy as when she had been alive.

It took several attempts before he could speak without betraying himself. “I want her buried in the meadow, down by the river.”

“Aye. She always did like it there,” Samer said, and for a moment, the gulf between them closed, and they were of one mind and one feeling. But then Samer bowed, promising that he would see to it, as his lord commanded, and they were once more miles apart.

Samer left him in peace, and Arthur stood by her for a long time, listening to the rain and thinking about the proud spread of her wings and her fierce cry as she arrowed through the sky. His father had given her to him, and he realized with a pang that with her death, he had lost the last living reminder of the family that had loved him as a child—his mother, his father, Morgana, and now Albreda. 

It had never been perfect, of course—losing his mother, and his father growing more distant and stern as the years passed. But there had been so many good moments, too. He remembered his father carrying him on his shoulders and showing him how to hold a sword. He remembered the day his father gave him his mother’s sigil and a rare story about the first time he had seen Ygraine, sitting in her father’s hall with the sunlight on her brow. He remembered stealing pies from the kitchen with Morgana and swimming together in the pond. 

And now these moments existed only within his heart. For if Morgana thought on the past at all, it must be only to brood over every slight and injustice, twisting even the good things until they had been warped beyond recognition.

The rain had stopped by the time he emerged from the dark mews, and the sky was clearing. He met Gwen in the corridor on his way to his chambers, and she stopped him and took his hand.

“I heard,” she said. “I am so sorry, Arthur.”

He nodded. “I should like to be alone, I think,” he said, and Guinevere did not take offense but understood, and let him pass. 

But of course he must meet Merlin, too, who reached for him hesitantly, and then let his hand fall.

“You will not have to be feeding her mice again,” Arthur said at last.

“I did not mind it so much,” Merlin began, eyes filled with pity, but Arthur forestalled him.

“Perhaps not. Regardless, you do not need to attend me tonight.”

Merlin sighed, but did not argue the matter, to Arthur’s relief. 

He had almost reached the comforting solitude of his chambers when Lionet suddenly appeared, stumbling around a corner and almost bumping into him.

“How did you get in here?” Arthur demanded, in no mood to deal with seeing the lad to whichever lady had enticed him into the castle with honeyed promises. 

“I—forgive me, sire,” Lionet said, flushing and bowing. “I only wished to see you—away from the crowds and the courtiers—so that I might speak to you frankly.”

Arthur started to tell him that now was not the time, but Lionet looked so downcast and nervous that he relented and ushered him inside. 

Lionet stared about him, marveling at the contents of a king’s chambers—the colorful tapestries; the wooden bathing tub in the alcove, lined with padded cloth; Excalibur in its place by the window of leaded glass; the bed with the heavy, damask curtains drawn back and tied with golden tassels. 

Arthur hid a smile, pushed Albreda to the back of his mind, and bade Lionet be seated and speak his mind.

Lionet perched on the edge of the chair and cleared his throat. “Let me thank you again, your highness, for the generosity you have shown me. I had heard stories of your kindness, but now I—”

Arthur waved a hand. “You may dispense with the flattery.”

“Sire.” Lionet swallowed, looking down at his hands. “I wished to speak to you about my father. He is an old man, sire, and has trouble running the mill as he used. He—but I forget my manners, sire. May I fetch you some wine?”

“No, thank you,” Arthur said, wanting this meeting done with quickly. “Continue.”

Lionet cleared his throat, nerves returning. “Well, the fact of the matter is, sire—” He stopped again and was silent for a few moments before continuing. “I know that although I am proving my skill on the field, the road to knighthood is a long one, and it may be many years before I am settled comfortably. Therefore, I must ask you, if you think it wise that I continue. Or should I return to my father and ease his burdens in his dotage, forgoing my own glory thereby?” 

“I think—” Arthur began and then the door suddenly slammed open, and Merlin burst into the room.

“What are you doing here?” Merlin demanded of Lionet, glaring at him.

Lionet blinked, startled. “I only wished to speak to his majesty—”

“Do not _lie_ ,” Merlin retorted, his eyes narrowing. “I know—” He stopped abruptly, mouth drawn into a thin line.

“What do you know?” Arthur asked, annoyed. “And what do you mean by running in here like that, with nary a knock?”

“Arthur,” Merlin’s tone was pleading, “Arthur, I do not think it wise to be alone with strange knights like this. Lionet—”

And here it was again, Merlin’s suspicions, his groundless fears that he could not explain. And Arthur could not sort through this tangle now, not today, with Albreda gone and his father so fresh in his mind. Uther would disapprove of all this, would think Arthur weak, indecisive. He snapped, “Lionet is scarcely a stranger. We have fought and talked and broken bread together.”

“I shall take my leave, sire,” Lionet murmured, edging for the door. “I have already taken too much of your time.”

“No, it is no trouble,” Arthur protested, just as Merlin said loudly, “Yes, I think that would be for the best,” and gave Lionet a cold stare.

Lionet gave a hasty bow and was out the door before Arthur could stop him.

“Look at me,” he said to Merlin after a few moments of heavy silence. 

Merlin met his eyes, tilting his chin defiantly.

“Sweet mercy, what has gotten into you?” Arthur asked, trying to repress his impulse to go over and shake some sense into Merlin. “Are you jealous, is that it?”

“Of course not!” 

“No? Then what? And do not tell me it is just a feeling you have.”

Merlin dropped his eyes again. “You said you wanted to be alone. Lionet has no right to impose upon you.”

“He needed to speak with me on a personal matter regarding his father, and I would not turn him away. He is conflicted over his decision to become a knight,” Arthur added, “and I am glad to offer the best counsel that I can.”

“You believed what he told you?” Merlin flung out his arm, gesturing at the darkening sky outside the window. “He shows up, claiming to be from this village, with no way to confirm his story, seeking to get close to you—”

“Am I to suspect everyone who comes close to me then?” Arthur burst out, giving voice to all the doubts and fears that plagued him. “Am I to trust no one? What kind of king will that make me—dogged by suspicions and disquiet?”

The taut lines of frustration on Merlin’s face sagged wearily. “Of course you must not live like that. You _can_ give your trust.” He gave Arthur a beseeching look. “I ask that you trust _me_.”

It took Arthur aback, that Merlin thought he did not trust him. After all, to whom else did he speak the deepest thoughts of his heart? Who else knew him as Merlin did? Certainly his father had not, nor Morgana. None of his knights had ever drawn so close. Even Gwen did not approach the same level of intimacy—had not been with him in his most desperate hours. 

And yet—

“You give me no proof, Merlin,” he said quietly. “Is it justice to condemn a man simply on the word of another—however trusted that word is?”

“Arthur,” Merlin said, “ _please._ ” 

He could hear a wellspring of sorrow and unhappiness in Merlin’s voice, and he wanted to take it away; he wanted to bring a smile to Merlin’s face. But he was the king. He was that first, before all else.

“Can’t we set this aside for today?” he asked at last, sitting down and letting his head sink into his hands so that he did not have to look at Albreda’s perch in the corner. “I am so tired, Merlin.”

Merlin blinked a few times, quickly, and then came and wrapped his arms around Arthur, leaning over him and resting his cheek against Arthur’s head. He slept with them that night, too, he and Gwen holding Arthur between them and making sure he did not feel the night’s chill.

He expected Merlin to bring the matter of Lionet up again the next morning, but for an unknown reason, Merlin held his tongue and instead busied himself with getting soot all over Arthur’s clean tunic. Arthur could not make himself speak on the subject of Lionet and traitors and the whole wretched business—the evening before, Guinevere had proudly announced that she thought the guilds were drawing close to an agreement on the charter, and he did not want to ruin the happiness of her morning by getting into an argument with Merlin. So he resolved to question Lionet more deeply about his past to see if he could catch him out in a lie.

“I knew you capable,” he said to Gwen as they dressed, “and I think it has been a good demonstration of your fitness to rule at my side. Hopefully it will put an end to all doubts.”

“ _If_ they agree to my latest proposal,” Gwen reminded him. “I would not put it past them—particularly that odious goldsmith Simeon—to refuse at the last minute. But, oh, I have found it so much more enjoyable than washing clothes or scrubbing floors, even with all their nonsense!”

As they walked down the corridor, Ema and Merlin trailing behind, he offered to consult with her and Geoffrey as they drew up the charter that would hopefully be signed. 

Gwen gave him an indulgent look. “I know you are bursting with impatience to return to the tourney field and watch the morning’s jousts. Geoffrey and I will manage. But you will take Ema and Merlin with you, and buy each of them a meat pie.”

“Of course, your majesty,” he murmured, giving her an elaborate bow, and Gwen laughed and sent them off.

Sir Ygdrin of the Western Isles won a golden leaf that morning, and Arthur sent a squire to compliment him on his horsemanship. It was very hot, even under his canopy, and Ema—sitting next to him in Gwen’s chair—fanned herself and pressed a damp cloth to the back of her neck. Merlin was sitting by the side of Arthur’s chair on a piece of sackcloth. He had pulled off his shoes and now wriggled his bare toes, slapping idly at flies. 

“I heard that Osbert wagered with Sperling on the winner of the tourney,” Merlin said, as they watched a knight try to control his fractious steed, which insisted on dancing backwards from the field every time he tried to urge it forwards. 

Arthur groaned. “We will be consigned to a week’s worth of stringy meat and over-spiced sauces should Osbert lose. The man always insists on taking his ill humors out on the rest of the castle.”

“And if Sperling loses, we will have to listen to him sing the most sorrowful songs that he knows,” Merlin added. 

“I should rather have all the ladies weeping than my venison swimming in pepper and cardamom. But do not tell Guinevere that I said that,” he told Ema, who giggled.

It was past midday when he made his way back to the castle, having dismissed Merlin to go help Gaius with the latest round of bruises and broken bones decorating the less fortunate of the competitors. Outside the gate, he chanced upon Lionet, who had not been jousting that morning. 

He gave him a hard look, but saw nothing more than a young man, dressed in a saffron tunic that did no favors to his complexion. Could Lionet wish him harm, as Merlin thought? Well, this would be a good chance to question him further, at any rate. 

“Come to my chambers,” he invited, “we need to finish our conversation of yesterday.”

“I should not have troubled you, sire. Please do not—”

“Nonsense. I have thought the matter over, and I want to speak with you about it. I know full well the difficulties of supporting and respecting a father when your own life’s blood burns hotly in your veins.”

So Lionet came with him without further protest. Arthur watched him as they proceeded through the corridors. Perhaps Merlin was right that Lionet was not being truthful about his past. He had always thought the tale about being a miller’s son an unlikely one. His earlier suspicions that Lionet was the bastard son of a nobleman seemed far more plausible. Mayhap that was the deceit that Merlin sensed. For whatever reason, Lionet did not wish to reveal his true parentage and was trying to mask it behind this falsehood. Although why he should go to the trouble of concocting this story about his father, bringing it to Arthur’s attention…well, he would get to the truth of the matter. 

“Sire, is anything wrong?” Lionet asked, noticing his scrutiny. 

“Nothing,” Arthur replied, smiling. “Now come, let us have some wine and ease our labors for a while.” He shut the door to his chambers behind them, untying his belt and laying Excalibur on the table. 

“It is such a fine blade,” Lionet murmured, and he wore the same eager look that Arthur had noticed the night of the feast. “Such power.” He put a daring finger on the scabbard and then snatched it back. 

“It is only a sword,” Arthur told him, taking Excalibur to her place by the window. “However I happened to come by it.” He started to pour the wine, but Lionet hastened over and took the pitcher. 

“Let me do that, sire. It is too great an honor to be served by your hands.”

“Very well.” Arthur allowed it, glad to sit down, the heat of the day kept from them by the cool, thick stones. “What village did you say you hailed from, again?”

“Reeve’s Crossing, sire.” Lionet turned round, handing him a goblet.

“Ah, yes.” Arthur took a sip. “Such sweet wine, upon my word! It must be a new barrel, for the last was sour enough to turn the stomach.” He leaned forward. “Now tell me, Lionet—if I should summon a man from Reeve’s Crossing, would he recognize your face? Would he say—‘yes, I have known him since he was a boy.’?” 

Lionet looked warily at Arthur. “Why do you ask, sire?” 

“Why do you question your lord and master?” Arthur returned, letting his voice cool slightly.

“My apologies,” Lionet said quickly, bowing. “But of course, if you summoned the blacksmith or the cartwright, he would know me for a man of his own village.”

Arthur passed a hand over his face. He had felt so dizzy for a moment—the heat, perhaps—he would take another drink of his wine. “You do not have to lie to me, you know,” he said gently. 

Lionet fidgeted, mouth pursed tightly and then exclaimed, “Does this have to do with that servant of yours? Has he been spreading ill words against me?”

“Merlin,” Arthur said, “does not lie to me. He has my complete trust, and you would do well not to speak so about a member of my household.” He said the words carefully, for his tongue felt thick and clumsy, but it was important to make this fact clear. He drank some more wine to try and clear his throat. 

“Do you feel well, sire?” Lionet asked, his voice softer.

“Yes. I—I feel….” He blinked and shook his head. “And would you take a seat? I do not stand on ceremony. I am not a pomperous—a pomp—” He paused, the room tilting dizzily before his eyes. “Wh—what—” Dimly, he heard his goblet strike the floor, his arm too heavy to hold it up anymore. He couldn’t keep his eyes open, and it was growing dark…so dark, and yet it was hardly past midday…

He woke to a splitting headache and a roiling stomach. Moaning, he tried to sit up and instantly regretted it as his stomach heaved. But cool hands were on his shoulders and someone was holding a basin.

Retching and grimacing, he sank back onto the pillows. Gaius whisked away the basin, and Merlin wiped his brow with a damp cloth, combing back his sweaty hair. 

“What happened?” he asked weakly. 

“Drink this, sire,” Gaius said. “It will settle your stomach.”

Arthur did as he was told, knowing the futility of resistance. But when he had finished the draught, he asked again.

Gaius and Merlin exchanged a look. 

“We think it was the heat, sire,” Gaius said. “You were out in the sun too long and…fainted.”

“I did _not_ faint!” Arthur said hotly, trying to sit up again. 

Merlin pressed him back down. “Do not worry, sire, we will speak of it to no one.”

Arthur glared. Merlin tried to fuss with his blankets, and he batted his hand away. “I was not overcome by the heat.” He glanced around. “Ask Lionet. Where is he, anyway?”

Another silence.

“He, um, came to get us,” Merlin said at last. “When you…fainted.”

“ _Merlin_.” 

“Well, what am I supposed to call it, then?” 

“I did not faint. It was probably something in those dodgy meat pies we were eating earlier.”

“ _I_ didn’t just throw up my dinner,” Merlin pointed out.

Arthur turned to Gaius. “Bring Lionet here. I was talking to him—I keep trying to talk to him, and I should like to finish our conversation.”

“You need to rest, sire,” Gaius said repressingly. “And drink some weak ale and try a little blancmange to see if you can keep it down.”

Futile to resist, Arthur reminded himself. “Very well, but I will talk to Lionet while I do so.”

Gaius cleared his throat. “Lionet is…gone, sire.”

“Gone? What do you mean, gone?” And suddenly a fear seized Arthur, remembering the eager look in Lionet’s eyes as he had gazed on Excalibur, remembering all of Merlin’s warnings and suspicions. He started up again, his heart pounding. But no—there was Excalibur, safely in its place.

“He was seized with a desire to, uh, travel,” Merlin continued.

Arthur blinked at him. “What nonsense are you yammering about?”

“You remember how Lancelot decided to go haring off into the wild? Well, Lionet has done the same.” Merlin fiddled with the hem of the blanket. “He decided that he could not accept your generosity without proving himself first.”

“Is this about what I said to him?” Arthur demanded. “I was questioning him—questioning him as _you_ bade me, Merlin. You must go after him and get him back.”

“But he would not return, milord,” Merlin said quickly. “When he saw that you doubted him, he could not remain. Not with honor. When he has shown what kind of knight, and man, he is, he will return, I am certain of it.”

Arthur tried to push away the throbbing in his head so he could think. A hollow coldness grew in him. “Then once more I have driven away a man who should have stayed at my side,” he said slowly. “As I did with Lancelot. It broke her heart to see him ride away.” Horrified, he realized that tears were welling in his eyes, and he dashed them away. 

“Lancelot left because of Uther,” Merlin said firmly. “Not you.”

“The first time perhaps. But not the second.”

“You must not blame yourself, Arthur.” Merlin dabbed at his brow again, and Arthur noticed that the sleeve of his tunic was charred, the skin of his arm red and swollen.

“What has happened?” he asked.

Merlin shrugged. “I was clumsy with a candle.”

“And why hasn’t Gaius seen to it?”

“I have tried to tend it, sire,” Gaius put in. “But he would insist on waiting until you came round.”

“It is nothing,” Merlin protested, but together, Arthur and Gaius chivvied him into sitting still long enough to have some salve rubbed on his arm. 

“And now I shall take my leave, sire,” Gaius said. “Make sure he takes this within the hour, Merlin,” he added, placing another one of his draughts by Arthur’s bedside. 

Arthur rested, watching sleepily as Merlin puttered about, pretending to clean. He thought on what had happened—it was all so confusing and sudden. And had he truly fainted, like a flighty girl? His mind harkened to the wine he had been drinking—wine that Lionet had poured. But Excalibur was in its place, he was alive, and no other calamities seemed to have occurred. 

“I think you were right, Merlin,” he said at last. “About Lionet.”

Merlin dropped the platter he was holding and it clattered loudly on the stones. He stared at Arthur, wide-eyed. 

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “I don’t _always_ think you’re an idiot, Merlin. I _do_ listen occasionally. And I think that Lionet was indeed lying to us. In fact, I am quite convinced that he was a by-blow of Lord Gareth’s—the same pale blond hair, the both of them. Although why the lad couldn’t just admit it does escape me.”

A certain tenseness that had enveloped Merlin dissipated, and he plopped down on the bed. “You are most clever, sire,” he murmured, and Arthur could see him hiding a smile.

They watched each other silently for a moment, and Merlin’s hand crept closer to his. Arthur grasped it. He must speak—he must ask the question that burned in his breast. “Merlin,” he said slowly, “you must tell me. You must tell me _truly_. Did Lionet mean to steal Excalibur? Did he poison my wine?”

Merlin closed his eyes for a brief second and then stared into Arthur’s. “No. No, Arthur, it was not like that.”

“You are sure?” he asked, hating how uncertain his voice sounded. If he had once more misjudged, if he had once more failed to detect treachery…

“I am sure. Lionet was distraught when he came to us. He was so worried about you, and it was only when he knew that you were all right that he mentioned leaving. And he only left because he admires you so, and wants to make you proud of him.” Merlin rubbed his thumb over Arthur’s knuckles. “You were right about him—about his character. It was I who was in the wrong of it.”

Arthur studied Merlin’s eyes, and then nodded, satisfied. He was reminded of that night Merlin had come to him, spilling his wild tale about Sir Valiant and magic shields and snakes. When Merlin had bitterly said that his word did not count for anything because he was a servant. In that moment, Arthur had realized how much Merlin’s word _did_ count with him. 

That had never changed. It would not change. 

He sighed, feeling a deep relief as the last tension left him. He had not been wrong about Lionet. He had not acted rashly or unjustly. The only unfortunate thing was that Lionet had been struck too deeply by his questions and ridden off in haste. Still, perhaps it would be good for the boy to learn the ways of the world before joining his knights. Letting his eyes close, he made up his mind that he would always try to help the young men who came to him, seeking a better place. He would always respect them and hope to earn their loyalty and service thereby.

When Gwen came in later, she found the two of them curled together in the bed. Merlin glanced between her and Arthur and made to rise, but Gwen held out a hand, stilling him. “There is no need—not on my account,” she said and sat on the other side of the bed. Arthur held out his other hand, and she took it. “You’re awake, and looking better.” Gwen smiled, relieved. “Gaius assured me that you would be well, but I am afraid I was rather short with the guilds in my haste to get back to you.”

“And did they agree?” Arthur asked. “Did they agree to your proposal?”

“Yes.” Gwen shared his delighted grin. “We will sign the charter when you are feeling able. You may rest easily in the knowledge that I won you a most favorable tax rate—the first payment of which will be due at harvest time.”

“Ha! I’d have liked to have seen their faces when they agreed to that one,” Merlin exclaimed. 

Gwen blushed. “It was only a minor charter.”

“Minor?” Arthur shook his head. “Negotiating an entirely new relation between the Crown and our subjects? There is nothing minor in that. In fact, once the news gets around, the nobles will most likely be in an uproar, sure that every peasant in the land will come knocking on their doors, demanding a charter of their own.”

“I fear you are right. Well, I will go and try to forestall some of the panicking. Convenient, that we have so many of our delightful lords and ladies gathered here. And you will stay,” she added as Arthur made to rise. “An hour ago you were delirious. Merlin—see to it that he doesn’t do anything foolish, won’t you?”

Arthur protested a little, but in truth, he still felt weak and his stomach unsettled. 

“Gwen can handle the kingdom for a few hours, sire,” Merlin commented when she had left. “You can afford to rest and get better.”

“I know. It is well to no longer have an empty throne beside me. Not that I was alone,” he added hastily. “For you have been here, always. In fact,” he reflected, “I can hardly remember the time before you arrived. When my life was peaceful. And I had a servant who behaved appropriately.”

“How dull that must have been for you, sire.”

Arthur ignored him and went on, “But I could hardly have you negotiating charters with merchants—I’d end up penniless and crownless for certain. And who would clean my boots?” 

What he really meant was that it would take Merlin from his side, that another servant would be the one dressing him and serving him, that another would assume the intimacy of tending to the king. He could not have borne that—would never want anyone but Merlin so close to him. 

He thought Merlin understood what he could not say, for his hands were gentle as he helped Arthur eat some clear broth, and he kissed him when he helped Arthur settle back under the blankets.

He felt much improved the next day—well enough to enjoy some more of the tourney, despite Gaius, Gwen, Merlin, and even Leon fussing at him. He was not sure how Leon had heard the tale, but he counted it a small mercy that it did not seem to have reached Gwaine’s ears.

News of the charter was everywhere, and various notable personages kept intercepting him with a variety of opinions on the matter, ranging from satisfaction to (veiled) indignation, the latter being the emotion of choice among the courtiers and visiting lords. 

But no one dared to impugn Gwen’s abilities, nor called her anything but “her majesty,” and so he counted the entire affair successful even if it did herald trouble down the line. 

“Lord Melcombe, for one, will be able to use it to his advantage,” Lord Rocelin commented grimly from his seat next to Arthur on the royal dais. “The last time I saw Ector, he mentioned that Melcombe had been making the rounds, and this is perfect fodder for building a coalition against you.”

“He would have found some matter, regardless,” Arthur replied, noting Gwen’s troubled look. “And perhaps now our coffers will fill to comfortable levels again.”

“I shall hope for it, sire. And how is your health today? I understood from Sir Leon that you were taken poorly.”

Arthur waved a hand. “It was only a trifling bit of indigestion. But I fear Lionet has left us—took it into his head that he must prove himself off the tourney field before he could appear with honor upon it.”

“He will be a fine addition to your knights one day, sire.”

“I certainly hope—”

“May I fetch milords a cooling drink?” Merlin asked, interrupting. 

“Yes,” Arthur said, giving him a reproving (though ineffectual) glare. “And after that, go to the mews and collect Brihtwara from Samer. Brihtwara is my new gyrfalcon,” he added to Rocelin, “and a lovely one, indeed. You will admire her fine plumage particularly, I think—oh, do not sulk, Merlin. Would you have me without a bird at my side, on an occasion such as this?”

For today the winner of the tourney would be decided. It had come down to Sir Aylwin and Sir Ygdrin, and Arthur hoped the match would be an exciting one, with neither of them getting unseated on the first pass. 

“Upon my honor, but Ygdrin handles that steed of his admirably!” Rocelin exclaimed as the combatants rode upon the field.

“But Aylwin has experience on his side—and I’ve never met a surer hand with a lance. He’d have had me last summer, if luck had not been on my side.”

“I doubt that it was luck, your highness,” Rocelin said, smiling, and then turned his attention to the joust.

“I shall be sorry to see the tourney come to an end,” Gwen said, “no matter the victor. It has seemed—well, like a return to old times—to good times.”

Arthur nodded. It was indeed good to sit here, listening to his people’s cheer and gaiety, watching his knights demonstrate their skill and valor. He realized that he did not mind so much that he sat now in what had been his father’s place. The thought awakened only a pang of sorrow instead of the roiling guilt and grief that had seemed to become a part of him these past months.

Sir Aylwin took the victory, but he behaved graciously, insisting that Sir Ygrdrin stand beside him to receive the crowd’s accolades, and Arthur honored him for it. 

He held a farewell feast for Aylwin that night, with all the best of the knights in attendance. They knew by the overwhelming taste of pepper in the fish sauce and Sperling’s jaunty air when he strolled into the hall the outcome of one wager over the tourney. Yet despite having to drown his burning tongue in copious amounts of wine, as he looked out on the hall, ablaze with candlelight, sounding with laughter and the snarls of dogs scuffling over bones, he felt that same sense of contentment. And when he rose to retire, and all the company bowed before him, the heady rush of kingship filled him—pride and honor and a fierce, pure love for what was his.

Summer wended its way toward autumn, and one morning Arthur woke to find that the light had shifted, and a chill lingered in the air.

The night before, Elyan had rashly challenged Gwaine to an archery contest after a cupful too many of wine, despite the fact that Gwaine could hit a target dead center at one hundred and fifty paces if the wind favored him. The court always enjoyed such diversions as these, of course, and so that morning he, Guinevere, and assorted courtiers and servants repaired to a field outside the city walls just before terce. Shading their eyes from the sun, they watched as Elyan and Gwaine stepped forward to the line that had been drawn in the dirt. 

“Mark how fine your brother holds his bow,” Lady Isemay said to Guinevere, and Arthur hid a smile. Ever since he had bestowed Tintagel upon Percival and Margaret, the ladies of the court had begun paying much greater attention to Elyan and Gwaine. 

Gwaine jested about for a moment, pretending to stab himself in the foot with an arrow and then offering to wear a blindfold to “even the terms of the engagement.”

“I see his impending fatherhood has not sobered Gwaine one wit,” Arthur commented. “And what was Elyan thinking—encouraging him like this? Gwaine will brag about his victory for a solid month, you know.”

“Perhaps Elyan has unexpected skills with a bow,” Gwen said. “I trust you did not wager on Gwaine.”

“Elyan and Leon used to shoot together as children, didn’t they?” he said, realization dawning. “Which explains why Leon was so eager to match my bet.”

“If you had asked me first, I should have told you,” Gwen continued, trying to maintain a superior air. “But of course, if you see fit to throw your coin rashly away, it is your outlook, my lord.”

“You were sitting right there when the challenge was made!” Arthur protested. “You could have said. And I do not think Leon should take advantage of his king in such a manner.”

Gwen’s laugh finally broke through, and she looped her arm through his. “And yet I know you would be quite hurt were they to treat you only with deference and neglect the friendship that binds you all.”

The match ended in a draw, and Gwaine made much of Elyan’s hidden skills, swearing that he would not be at all surprised were Elyan to prove a capable weaver, winemaker, and baker to boot. 

Dinner was not far off, but Arthur decided that the day was so fine that he would go for a ride and inspect the bridge that had just been finished down by the ford to the south of the city. He located Merlin—sequestered behind a dusty pile of parchment in his room researching a remedy for lung fever—and told him to get their horses saddled. “And fetch some bread and cheese from the kitchens while you’re at it,” he added.

The road was busy with traffic to and from the city gates—wagons laden with bundles, a swineherd driving some pigs to the butcher, a passel of hens escaped from their cages and fluttering madly among the feet and hooves of passersby. After a few hundred yards the press thinned out, however, and he and Merlin were able to kick their horses into a canter and catch the scent of new-mown hay brought by a friendly breeze.

Arthur slowed them down again once they’d had a good run, content to admire the yellow hawkbit and purple knapweed growing by the verge of the road and the signs of the harvest in the fields beyond. The harvest had been a good one after all, and his people would not have another hungry winter. And they would not be troubled by war again. There was still no sign of Morgana, and part of him was glad of that, and another part that he could not suppress worried about her. 

Thinking on her and times past put him in mind of another matter. “I had a letter from King Lot yesterday,” he said aloud.

Merlin frowned. “He had best not have any designs on this kingdom. Perhaps you should remind him of what happened to Cenred.”

“No, nothing like that. I had written to him regarding a certain village that now lies within his kingdom. I believe you know it.”

Merlin gave him an inquiring glance. “Ealdor? Is something the matter? My mother has not mentioned—”

Arthur held up his hand, forestalling him. “Lot has agreed to cede Ealdor to me in exchange for a few favors. It is part of Camelot now.”

Merlin blinked at him a moment and then smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Truly?” He swallowed and cleared his throat. “Thank you for this, Arthur. I am glad to know that they are under your protection. I know you will look after them.”

“Yes, well, they gave me shelter when I needed it, and I have not forgotten that. Besides, you give me enough trouble as it is—I decided I had best look out to ensure that more insubordinate, rebellious boys from Ealdor do not end up here, plaguing me.”

“Hmmm, I think you could use more of us, sire. Do you know how much work it takes to keep your arrogance at a manageable level?”

“Oh, so is that what you have been busy doing? I suppose it explains why there is an inch of dust behind my clothes chest.”

The bridge was as sturdy and well-made a structure as Leon’s report had indicated. They let the horses drink while they ate their bread and cheese, and then turned back to the castle. Arthur almost suggested slipping into the forest to see if they could find some wild damsons, but then his conscience pricked him, and he recalled the intimations of his chancellor that morning that there were several matters that needed Arthur’s urgent attention.

So he returned and spent the afternoon with quill in hand, getting ink smudges everywhere.

But Osbert served fyllettes in galyntyne for supper, the tender pork melting in the sauce seasoned with sandalwood and saffron, and Arthur’s good humor was quite restored. Besides, when he and Guinevere returned to their chambers, he found a bowl of ripe damsons waiting for him, which Merlin must have picked that afternoon. 

“I suppose I shall forgive you the dust for these,” he told Merlin, who smiled and promptly ate one himself, licking the sweet juice off his fingers.

They decided to have a fire in the hearth, as the nights were growing colder, and Gwen settled down in front of it with her embroidery. Merlin dropped cross-legged onto the rug, Arthur’s mail in a jumble of gleaming rings on his lap, and began polishing. 

Arthur watched them a moment and then went over to the window. It was growing dark outside, and he could see the slender curve of a new moon, all smudged and soft through the glass. He could hear Gwen and Merlin talking softly behind him, and Brihtwara rustling her feathers on her perch. 

It had been good, he thought to himself, to be alive on such a day as this. Good, to have spent it in the company of those he loved. 

He hoped, could his father see him now, that he would be proud of what he had accomplished. The kingdom at peace and prosperous, loyal knights arrayed behind him, all the doubts and uncertainties of his first months as king banished. 

Perhaps one day, soon, he could look back on Agravaine’s betrayal with a detached regret instead of flaying himself for failing to notice his uncle’s treachery. Perhaps he would be able to think on Morgana and feel only pity instead of raw betrayal. He could not yet…but it would come. It would come, in time.

For now he could look ahead to the golden days of autumn, to the hunts and the feasts. He could look forward to winter nights under the furs, Guinevere and Merlin pressed warm against him. And he could anticipate the spring sweeping the land, gently waking the life that he harbored under his care. 

All of it stretched before him, the years that he would reign and live as king, and he welcomed them and gathered the promise of them close to his heart.

“And so,” he whispered to himself, “I have met the fate that you told me of, Merlin. And if I be not the greatest king that Camelot has ever known, at the least we shall strive to make her days happy ones.”

~The End~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to use the year 1250 as a rough guideline for the details of daily life in the Middle Ages. The 1200s seemed to me to fit the spirit of the show the best—a time of knights and castles and courtly love. I tried to incorporate many accurate descriptions, particularly when it came to food, clothing, etc. However, the Church was such a central part of medieval life that this fic should certainly not be taken as historically realistic. Ultimately, I felt that trying to incorporate the Church in any substantial way would require too many changes to canon, so I went with the sort of vague inconsistency of the show itself when it came to religion. 
> 
> For many of the details about Arthur’s duties as king, I utilized actual historical occurrences, such as selling some of his woods to a town to raise money, for example. The nobility were forever racking up extensive debts, thanks to their extravagant lifestyles, and villages were eager to get their hands on forested land, most of which belonged to the Crown, and clear it for agricultural purposes. The whole negotiations over a charter with the guilds is based around charters developed in French towns during the thirteenth century as the middling classes began gaining greater influence and the feudal system decayed. The listing of the various sources of income that Arthur holds is taken verbatim from a thirteenth-century document. 
> 
> The jousting prize of the tree decorated with gold and silver leaves is also taken from a real joust. And although it might seem hard to believe, medieval cooks did bake live birds into pies. “Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie” was not just nursery rhyme nonsense. The _sotelty_ was part of every feast and referred to an especially clever and diverting dish, meant more for amusement than actual consumption. The birds would have been drugged prior to encasement in the pastry and then revealed to the startled diners. Other sotelties included stuffed animals that breathed fire, castles made of dough and covered in gold leaf, or meat dishes covered with “harp-strings made of bowel” to make the food look like it was full of worms. Medieval cooks were obviously fond of practical jokes, a fondness that extended to medieval society in general. 
> 
> Both of the songs in the fic are taken from medieval sources. The dawn song that Sperling sings was written by Raimbaut de Vaqueiras, or Riambaut de Vaqueyras, who came from Vacqueyras near Orange, Vaucluse. He spent most of his career as court poet and joined the Fourth Crusade in 1203 and was present at the siege of Constantinople in 1204. Dawn songs were an especially popular genre. The second song, sung by Elyan, “Rest Awhile, You Cruel Cares,” is quite lovely in its entirety, and I recommend finding a recording of it for a listen.
> 
> The title is obviously taken from this song. Chapter titles are taken from lines in Tennyson’s “Idylls of the King,” sometimes with slight modifications.
> 
> Leon’s sister, Margaret, and her relationship with Percival I admit to taking from my Arthur/Leon series, so if you have read that, you no doubt recognized her. 
> 
> Merlin reading the _The Mabinogion_ to Arthur on the way to Tintagel is a tip-of-the-hat to one of my favorite Merlin fics, [First Snow](http://lisztful.livejournal.com/3313.html#cutid1) by lisztful, in which Merlin also reads a part of the story. 
> 
> Along with various internet searches and name databases, the books that I relied on the most for research were: _Life in a Medieval City_ and _Life in a Medieval Castle_ by Joseph and Frances Gies; _The Time Traveler’s Guide to Medieval England_ by Ian Mortimer; _Food in Medieval Times_ by Melitta Weiss Adamson; and _Medieval Dress and Fashion_ by Margaret Scott
> 
> Go [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/943141) to leave a comment for the artist!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Rest Awhile, You Cruel Cares (ART POST)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/943141) by [barbitone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbitone/pseuds/barbitone)




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